In September, here in Brooklyn, there will be a summer-warm afternoon, heavy with moisture, when an autumn front approaches. Above me is that sky that made May and June beautiful, fragrant with flower scents and optimism, but that by now has become
In memorium
Monty
As a wedding gift, Grandma Spratt gave my parents a cat from a litter born in her backyard. He was black except for a white stripe on his chest, and Mum and Dad named him Monty. They said that when I was born two years later, they’d worried they’d
Justin, My Own Farewell
1 When I picked up the ringing phone, I heard a recording of a man howling in agony. How despicable of a robo-caller to disseminate such a heart-rending sound. I hung up. Half an hour later, the phone rang again. It was my brother, crying, but now
Dad: My Memorial Speech for Harold Anthony Spratt
Anticipating my speech at Dad’s memorial service, I was determined to deliver it fluently and with conviction. I have visually impaired friends who memorize their speeches, but it’s a talent I’ve never acquired. Instead, I braille sequential phrases
The Last Goodbye
In my childhood, there were several occasions when Dad and I had to say goodbye. Two that were especially painful occurred during my four months of hospitalization when I was thirteen. The evening after I’d had a long operation, Dad was compelled
In My Beginning
Last Saturday, here in Brooklyn, the wind brought a freshness to an afternoon that otherwise would have been too hot. I felt a vague sense of some yet earlier afternoon, a memory I couldn’t quite place, then or now. It is hidden behind the veils of