His Beautiful Death
“Am I dying, Mir?” he asks me, as we lie together in the narrow hospital bed, holding hands in the darkness. I sit up and turn to him. “Yes,” I say simply, “You are, Bri.”
“Am I dying, Mir?” he asks me, as we lie together in the narrow hospital bed, holding hands in the darkness. I sit up and turn to him. “Yes,” I say simply, “You are, Bri.”
The gully behind my aunt and uncle’s new house intrigued me. It was deep and wild, and resembled a small canyon, with lots of wooded areas for city children…
Thank God things are quiet. I guess it’s medication time everywhere in the hospital, the same way it can be Christmas everywhere in the world.
…attempting to find the answer to “what do you write about” is quite possibly the most frustrating pursuit for me. I sometimes see other writers replying to this…
It was unusual for Aaron to call so I always answered the phone when he did. These conversations were cerebral and sometimes hard to follow…
I often take pride in the testimony that I never wore dresses as a kid. But that’s a lie. At age 5 I wore one dress – a single dress and that dress only.
I’m trying to get into our new safe deposit box, but I haven’t brought the key with me. “Can’t you open it with yours?” I ask. She gives me a quizzical look.
As a child, any time I got to spend with Dad amounted to the thumb space at the toe of a tight shoe. Dad was a general handyman in the surrounding neighborhoods…
“Can we pray for my brother?” She asked as I petitioned the class for prayer intentions. “We just found out he is going to be incarcerated…”