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A good thought has a way of becoming anonymous, echoing strangely through others, being polished like a riverbed stone or a ballad. My blood's a cocktail of Scots-Irish, Dutch, Italian, German, and Muscogee. My cultures have been bled from me until I am…
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He drifted for years: No forwarding. No phone.
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Dear survivor, prodigal son, only weeks ago I said: You can't come home.
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Satchmo sings a love song over the sound system. People read books, tap keyboards, drink coffee, eat cake. In Barnes & Noble—more a coffee shop these days than a bookstore—I am thinking about my dad and his stomach cancer.The terror he…
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