237 6 7
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Now it was, distorted as it was through the sepia tones of mourning. It's that sweet spot - the place where fantasy and memory collide. It's what makes reality livable.
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122732
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Her students read their work aloud in class, haltingly, sometimes proudly, and their willingness amazed Miriam. They were immigrants and retirees, carpenters, security guards, Indian nannies, Iranian escapees. She loved their odd word choices, the lack of editorial impulse.…
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124441
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Refuse to go to the church service, even though you already missed the funeral. Tell his mother something came up. Call his phone over and over, just to hear his voice, until his mother asks you to stop. Make a recording of his voicemail. Delete it an
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156385
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This is where he died, she says to me, and points to the damp pavement. Her hair is wet, and slicked against her neck. The humidity is making everything engulf her. The sleep shorts I bought her last July are loose on her now, but between the rain and
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640
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I lost my ability to bring the heat. I tried compensating with the logical choices and served up curve balls, screw balls, sliders, sinkers and change ups. I even got tossed out of a game for throwing spitballs. I guess the bulge in my cheek from the gob
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144054
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Often we sit in silence and age. We are observers of dust, fashioning ourselves into antiques.
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9121
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So the beautiful old men fill her days. Their beauty comes from their gentleness, their quiet voices, the way they sit so still, hour by hour, causing no harm, giving a sense of peace and complete good-will.
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11250
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It was the first time I saw his hands tremble. He was looking at me, waiting for an answer. He had bought a new shirt and tie and was wondering if it looked good with his suit jacket. It didn't. But it was his hands I couldn't take my eyes off of as he fumbled with his…
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75100
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The old man looked expectantly down the street, and, seeing nothing, turned back to his cup of tea.
Five dollars this tea had cost him, but it was worth it, not only for its quality- it was exceptional- but for the visitor that cup of tea would bring.
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138147
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I didn't feel much when I found out that Jay is dead. I didn't cry. I tried.
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3200
|
Was there such a thing as sacred suicide?
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146866
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It drifted into the sea, I say, when you ask me about home. You’ve only known me for a few moments, so you’re not sure how to gauge me. You laugh, and make an Annabel Lee reference. The English teach in me wants to hug you. The New Jersey in me wants
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115664
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This year I did not markthe day of your death.I let it slip by in an afternoonfilled with music you'll never hear,words you'll never read,a chorus of voices raised in protestat the unwavering passage of time.I don't need a numberto know that you are gone.Since you went…
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9761
|
I trip on the dimples, pimples, /
divots camouflaged in the sand
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109231
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It was a phone call we never expected. You were so full of life and joy and the sound of your laugh was pierced in our minds. Two strokes. That's what they said. No explanation, no back story. We worried we would lose you. Immediately, all of our memories with you started…
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