Like most New York subway riders, I avoid the very last car because it is the likeliest to be nearly empty, an invitation to danger. But that afternoon, knowing I'd be using the rear exit at my destination, I negotiated my way along the strangely

“Daddy, that book there.” “Which one, Jessie? Show me.” She pointed. “That one there, Daddy.” My three-year-old daughter hadn’t grasped that her Daddy's vision was fading. I saw a blur that was the line of books on the shelf, but I couldn't

The Saturday morning the cockatiel appeared, Carol and a dozen other sketchers met at the public seating area they’d chosen for that month's session. The small town was behind them, and in front was the wide river that dominated the region. Scanning

One morning years ago, a number of decades I could count on the fingers of one hand, I was waiting on the platform of my local subway station. A train arrived and opened its doors right in front of a woman with long, dark brown hair. A yard or two to