Not To Be: On Dead Dogs, Newborns, and Eternity
It is not considered polite to tell someone that they are dying. They may be visibly wasting away, broken, bleeding, redolent of your premonition and
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I still see him in my mind as a kind of Donnie Darko, carrot-massacring freak, and I will always feel sorry for his wife and children.
The clock survived the assault on its life, requiring only superficial repairs.
Rockford, where my father saw flames explode from my mother’s hair, where he lost his attitude and appetite for drink, where he always said I love you
The one ingredient that all disasters seem to agree on—the proverbial roux in the gumbo—is an inequality of romantic intent.