When the pet adoption form reveals itself to be an unexpected inquiry into mortality.

On our last Thanksgiving together my Grandfather Ezra, in his plain dark woolen coat, raised his hand and sanctimoniously asked my father to say grace. After an uncomfortably long silence I opened my eyes to see my parents tightly gripping each other’s hands as tears streamed down Dad’s face.

By Christmas Dad had retreated to the darkened guest room. I didn’t see him for eighteen months. When he finally emerged, he was bearded and gaunt, but seemed at peace. Or defeated. He was 48 years old, and looked 70. My mother had taken a job in a doctor’s office by then. After I went off to college they moved into a small apartment.

I saw you sneak that drink, and I forgive you for it.

Received a lovely message from T. yesterday. “Dear Michael, thank you for this thoughtful note. I admire your work, and it’s nice to hear from you.” Had to wonder, though, who is Michael?

Thirty years after the loss of their son they still look for him in restaurants—the man at the corner table, laughing with his beautiful wife, waiting for someone to join them.

Conveying the appearance of conveying a point of view.

Beneath the ceaseless parade of brightly colored images, blackness.