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
In memorium
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
Prayers for the Reluctant
When someone offers to say a prayer for us, can it be offensive? My religion-skeptic father is seriously ill. One of his friends prayed for him right there in the hospital room, while another said she would do so on her own. Ever unwilling to rock