Violets are blue and roses are red

So sorry to hear your father is dead

The fact he’s underneath the moss

Must add greatly to your loss

(continue reading…)

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On the way to Detroit, I had this dream that Mom told me that President Obama had called her to tell her I was coming to see her.

When the connecting flight pulled into Indianapolis (or as many of us called it, “India-No-Place”), I turned on my cell phone. There was a voicemail from my sister Mara telling me to call. I was pretty sure what it was. I dialed it. She said it was “The Call.” Our mother had passed on. (continue reading…)

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(inspired by the “Final Destination” series, with apologies to Lawrence Block)

Life is short, it ain’t no joke

There’s eight million ways to croak

Drive your car into a lake

Get bitten by a poisonous snake

(continue reading…)

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Dad was lying on what I was pretty much sure would be his death bed. His chest was heaving up and down from the oxygen being pumped into it through a tube inserted into his windpipe. He had been in a coma for days, and he didn’t look like dad anymore. For days, my head had been replaying scenes from a very disturbing movie I’d seen about a guy who can’t seem to wake up from his dreams—as it turns out, because he’s in a coma. I was only now starting to comfortably resign myself to the idea that dad might not be waking up again. (continue reading…)

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