Category: Creative Nonfiction

People hold signs every day. Homeless. Anything helps. Or Hungry. Please give, Or lost job. Children to feed. A piece of me questions each one. I admit it - I generally keep driving. I roll up my window, place glass between me and the shattered world, and sit with my own shards. And I wonder if I’ve ever been a few steps away from standing in those shoes. It takes courage to ask for help. 

The artist smoked cigars—one on his porch with a glass of mescal, another during an evening stroll through the neighborhood. One cigar a day, maybe two. "Nice cigars," he said.

He was on a student visa from Switzerland learning English. I helped him with slang, and he taught me French.

I come down to breakfast at 6 a.m. You stand in your blue terry cloth robe, cinched at the waist holding a cup of green tea in hands that are freckled, slender fingers around the cup. You hair falls on your shoulders, curling perfectly at the ends like those commercials for Clairol shampoo.

The love of reading is an infinite pursuit.