What can YOU say in six sentences?
On Saturday morning he goes to the hospital for a chest X-ray because yesterday he told the doctor he’s worried he can’t breathe, and then the doctor got all worried, too, listening to him six ways from Sunday and finally sending in a technician to do some spirometrics.
It takes him longer to walk into and out of the hospital than it does to make the required exposures; the radiologist, apparently only about fourteen years old, is chirpy, energetic, and very efficient.
I remember finding my full name and birth date carved into the wall of a wooden cabin I’d never visited in upstate New York
I remember thick-sliced tomatoes in an abandoned firetower in sweltering August
I remember the smell of my neighbor’s lightning-struck dog
I remember how the walls breathed on acid in 1969
I remember completely forgetting my name after I almost drowned
I remember the first note I ever blew on a tenor sax convinced…Continue
By three o’clock on Friday afternoon, it seems like all the mundane, pointless little tasks he should have tackled all week long have accumulated and coalesced into one big unassailable mass of unfiled documents and unreturned, unreturnable phone messages, not so neatly stacked in his inbox, half of them screaming out for immediate response, and the other half just as insistently demanding to be ignored until Monday, their subject matter either too urgent or too unimportant to warrant…Continue
She sets out for the coast, stops at the notch to admire the mountains, makes note that these are true mountains, not the soft green rounded foothills she calls home.
Left behind, he comes home from work to an empty house and thinks about her traveling through the mountains toward the sea she loves, driving along with all the windows fully open, waiting for that first whiff of salt air.
Two or three times before the sun goes down, he steps out onto the deck to count and recount…Continue
Less than an hour after July gives up the ghost to August, he stumbles out of bed suspecting that three hours sleep may be all there is to be had. As usual, there’s a soundtrack. This time, inexplicably, it’s April Love, Pat Boone crooning at him as insistently as his typical daytime standards, Under The Boardwalk and Why Do Fools Fall In Love. He’s compelled to seek relief by massaging his own keyboard, but it’s no use; no matter what he types, it’s still August in…Continue