My Life By Tens

At the fragile age of four, life’s patterns were already etched in a perplexing dichotomy. My existence was a pendulum swung with unnerving regularity between the dissolute confines of my parents’ urban dwelling — where the air was thick with the stench of failed ambitions and liquor — and the serene expanse of my grandparents’ apple orchard. In this sanctuary, the soil held promises, and the seasons dictated the rhythm of life. There, amidst the ghetto’s desolation and the farm’s bucolic reprieve, I was an enigma, a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit. My aunt’s assessment — ‘bugger of a kid’ — was a label affixed without…