Haloman
by Tao Yuan The week my father grew a new body part, the Tetteh family (all eight of us) were living in a narrow brick house on a narrow brick street, at the end of Wrexham that is mostly tarmac. Outside, the house was brick; inside, it was terminally clogged with mover’s boxes and baby bottles, to which each of the six children had in turn made a spirited contribution. Pius and Theo (that’s me) had graduated to the grown-up table; the kiddie table still seated Maria Maria, Leah Maria, Friday Efua Maria and Marie Antoinette. We lived like a bouncy castle, inflating inside a submarine. Mum (Bronwen) and Dad (George) still looked young, though with that mildly upsetting mix of features that makes people think “you’re too young to look that way.” Dad had precisely three long, cartoon hairs combed across an unwrinkled dome of forehead, while Mum had advanced quickly and serenely from having one smooth, dainty chin to having three. Our hatchback had a previous owner’s Star Wars decals ato...
