Ordinary Men

My boyfriend and I were on a train last night, sitting and watching the sad-faced commuters and the streaking tunnel lights as they passed by. There was a man who stood to the side of us, in the doorway. He appeared to be, at first glance, an ordinary man. But like most things in life, on further inspection, he was far from that. He wore a tan coat made of soft mohair and his tie was neatly in place. He carried, under his arm, a stack of newspapers. Not an odd sight on a commuter train heading from Oakland to San Francisco, but then I saw his shoes.

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Carob Tree Blues

When I was a child, I used to hold my breath—wanting so desperately to turn blue. I used to hold in air so long that when it burst out from my lungs my feet would leave the ground, my body jerked with so much force.

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Brotherly Love

Adam had died in late August just before the High Holidays. Her husband Nathan’s only brother, Adam had been the youngest in the large family of five. He had passed away suddenly -- one day after an unexpected motorcycle accident on the 10 Freeway caught him under a Ford Explorer. His skull was crushed against the hard curve of his helmet. The paramedics scraped the pieces of him off the emergency lane, placed him into the ambulance, and rushed him to Cedar’s Sinai. It was in the George Burns South Wing where Adam stopped breathing.

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