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Cissy – My Last Day on Earth
I will be a quiet soul with a blaring spirit, a 92-year old woman with a meditation practice who goes to church on Sundays. I will spend weekday mornings writing letters to politicians. Some days I’ll be alone sipping spicy sweet tea as I type and others in a community center drinking black coffee and filling out form letters with a group of concerned elders. I’ll write poetry and maybe journal but there won’t be much memoir I haven’t put to the page. Afternoons will be for naps and reading and dinner with guests eating food and laughter.
My ego will still be with me but it will be a rainbow of light hues as opposed to the black and white forms of today. I’ll have survived my spouse, most of my family of origin and my friends which will be my biggest burden to bear.
I will live alone, in funky senior housing and will have artwork on the walls, crafts for the little ones who come over, cats and a tiny window garden for herbs and flowers.
My prayer is that my daughter, will have an enormous circle of family and friends. She will be happily involved with my cousins, nieces and nephews, have her own kids and partner should she choose, and want to visit me without feeling obligated to do so. In my vision, she will still feel nurtured, loved and heard by me and there will be nothing left to resolve because I will have been able to say, “tell me” when she hints at ways in which I let her down knowing my best may have not been good enough for her.
I will hope she knows that love, when real, is palpable and never ending and she can choose to tether herself to my spirit like a soft blanket she rubs her cheek against, wraps herself in or even tosses off as need be when I pass.
I will reserve Saturdays for young writers and survivors to come and visit. They will ask, how did you survive, thrive, find self-acceptance, learn to be intimate with others and keep writing? Weren’t you afraid to trust and mother and speak your truth? They will want to know my answers and will not be bored or roll their eyes. I will be eager to share my secrets and sage advice knowing they will only take in what they can.
I will be able to hold pain, love, yoga poses and my attention for great lengths of time. I will stay in each pose and situation, no matter how uncomfortable without wishing it would end. Instead, I will have great curiosity and compassion for life itself, and my own too. I will know each pose will stretch and strengthen different parts of me. My ego will not put me in headstands (or relationships) which are not good for my neck and end up so heavy they are dangerous or burdensome. I will not let my desire to seem flexible and self-sacrificing (saying yes to all forms of volunteerism) let me hyperextend and then injure myself.
I will have learned that if the entire planet is training for a triathlon and I need to sink on the mat for days into a child’s pose resting and recouping I must. I will not feel ashamed or even lift my head as I hear the running, swimming and wheels riding by. Until ready, I will not rise. I will be able to do this as a result of a fifty year yoga and spiritual practice I devoted myself too after lots of tampering with it in the first half of my life. Stopping to honor my own inner guidance will no longer be a holiday I celebrate annually but a daily way of life. Sticky notes on my heart and psyche telling me what to do, feel and how to behave and react will no longer be necessary. I will trust myself.
I will close my eyes on this last day and grin, awaiting those who have gone before. But before I see people I will see and touch every plant, animal, shell and sea glass I have ever loved. Then, without leashing or collaring me, the dogs will come, in the dozens, to lead me and I will join their pack to be brought to those that were human. There will be love and tears and a place, a balcony to sit, once daily at least, to look down on the loved ones yet to arrive.
If tomorrow were my last day on Earth I’d brew some coffee, send some thank you notes, and then Brian and I would go for a swim. I came to this conclusion after a conversation I’d met once with an RN. She told me she had been dividing her work between hospice patients and with drug abusers. She said the hospice workload was the easier of the two. To me that was initially ironic because I envisioned people full of grief, regret, and attempts to make up for lost time. Instead she corrected me and said that the sense of finality gave them closure and, most often, the hospice came after a long illness of which they were no longer seeking medical treatment. That this was the end of pain, suffering, and feeling locked up by the medical establishment.
Also, I took the train down to Washington this time last week to get as close to the Obama inauguration as possible. I couldn’t get close enough to any of the jumbo-trons but was able to get within hearing range. The man with his audacity of hope told us all the unbridled truth about the approaching storm clouds and then he would need to be very decisive very quickly about how to handle things. I insert this political angle because if today were my last day I would have a sense of relief also in the sense that race and bickering political parties were mushroomed by needing a presidential candidate with both a brain and charisma. Seeing the speech later on TV with his vice president and advising cabinet all sitting around him I had this sense of almost contentment: the smart man – now that he’s won the election – has gone ahead and hired some equality, if not more, smart people to determine the route of these problems and how to reverse them as fast as possible.
Getting back to it being on my own last day there may be a list of things or choices of words I wish could take back or do differently. But I wouldn’t make a tally of these. What would be the use? What could is it ind the end to sit there and point out the flaws? Why be that art or film critic to the end? This is the time for a grilled cheese and a beer, tell favorite dirty joke again, and hear a bird chirp or see a dogs tail wag. As our diet is omnivorous so are our needs be them tactile or spiritual. Give yourself that one last piece of nourishment, set aside whatever assets you have for your loved ones and worthy causes. What good does your last day have when it was spent in traffic, sitting on hold with a customer service call center, or arguing? This is the time to drive to that pizzeria with the bay windows over the lake or that steak restaurant in Mystic Seaport that has funny and vanity license plates on the wall. Play the car radio as loud as possible and teach the lyrics to your favorite 70s guitar rock anthem to all of your fellow motorists. I’m feeling that my last day will have rough drafts – the literary equivalent to thumb nail sketches – and a chance to try and envision them on the grand scale one last time. But, most assuredly, my feet would NOT be on the bathroom scale that one last time.
So much for finishing the novel. Here’s what I would not do. No housework. No thinking I should lose some weight. No wearing of uncomfortable clothes. No bitching at my husband, no reprimanding my son. No e-mail. Not one more load of laundry, or one more dish to wash. Let them sit there.
I’m thinking of the movie, The Ultimate Gift, where the little girl asks for “a perfect day.” That’s what I want. A perfect day. Sunny, warm, not too hot, maybe about seventy-eight degrees, a light breeze. I’d call my best friends, and have a talk with my mom. Then I’d go to a private beach with my husband and son, set up a picnic, eat food high in cholesterol, maybe a nice, juicy burger – no worry about organic meat – well maybe just for my son. And salty snack food, creamy ice cream, chocolate. Oooh, a coke. Haven’t had one of those in years. It’s my last day, so the fates would let me eat whatever I want and feel just fine.
We’d walk along the beach, talking and holding hands. My son would have a long conversation with us, he’d be happy and content, as would we. There would be lots of laughter, hugs, and kisses. And more hugs and kisses. At night, we’d snuggle in bed together and watch a movie. I’d caress my son’s face and hair, smell him. Hug my husband some more. I’d tell him that he was a great husband, that I have no regrets other than leaving him too soon. I would tell them both I love them. A lot. Would I be able to give my little guy enough “I love you’s” to last his lifetime? I would write him a last entry in his journal. I would be sad to be leaving them.
I sometimes wonder what he felt in that moment. I imagine what he might have experienced when those last few molecules of him disappeared to me. I can only wonder and imagine because he could not speak, with words anyway. I was there, right there for his sacred departure, drowning in my own grief. But even then I could swear I saw something inexplicably bright, like a fire-fly flickering on a black summer’s night. And even then I truly thought I felt a burst of joy that tore through my sobs in a most mystifying way. Emotional overload. I had to bury it all away — that beaming jewel of light, that ecstatic whoosh of freedom. Cosmo’s treasure could only be uncovered when I recovered enough to remember.
Cosmosis Glick was love in-furry-carnate. He lived to love and loved to live in his own unique, completely adorable, Zen-like way. He truly lived and loved with furr-ocity! If ever you came to visit, Cosmo just had to run over so he could purr and rub and love you with all his might. If you were one of his blessed and chosen humans, Cosmo could never miss one nano-second, one precious opportunity to love you, love you, love you. Cosmo purred and hugged and cuddled his love more deeply into my heart than any other Being I have ever known – and I have known and loved many a Being in my day. He just had the purest, sweetest, endlessly giving feline heart. But this magnificent heart of his also had a condition, the scary it-can-happen-at-any-time kind of heart condition.
I have been told that I am an over-empathizer, that I live with my heart too wide open, too vulnerable and trusting to keep it safe. This is also how my Cosmo lived and how his heart functioned – for better and for worse. Over time his heart leaked more and more as it pumped less and less and still he stayed with me, for me, as long as he could. Until that day, the day Cosmo’s body could no longer comply with his loving intentions and my desperate wishes.
Oh no, Cosmo’s breathing is so labored. Oh no, my stethoscope is amplifying my very worst fear. Oh no, Cosmo’s getting ready to leave and I’m not at all ready to live without him. God help me. God help me keep my grief at bay long enough to do the right thing for the one I adore.
I Reiki’d Cosmo in the car as we drove to the Animal Hospital, praying for one more miracle, please! This can’t be Cosmo’s 9th life – please no. But that look in the Vet’s eyes… I said, “Do everything and then some! This is Cosmosis Glick! He’s a spiritual warrior, he’s a heart with fur, Cosmo is my beloved child in this lifetime. Please save him once more, please… “
They tried all day and they tried all night. I just about climbed in that cage with Cosmo and his IV, staying with him as long as they allowed. True to form, my sweet boy won over every human in the hospital. As sick as he was, Cosmo was still Cosmo and everyone fell in love with him, as always. Nothing could ever stop Cosmosis Glick from squeezing the most love out of each sacred second of life – not even dying.
The next morning I got the call. Nothing worked. Congestive heart failure. They tried everything. Today’s the day. Today is Cosmo’s last day on earth. Today is my last day with Cosmo.
The Vet tells me that Cosmo doesn’t seem to have any idea of just how sick he is. “He’s purring away as we pet him and hug him. He even ate breakfast. A big one!” she says with a forced smile. That’s my Cosmo – eating with gusto and living with passion, no matter how his heart was failing him. “It’s a matter of hours,” she says. “I can see how much you love him and I know you will do the right thing.” And I will. No matter how excruciatingly wrong this feels I will somehow lovingly do “the right thing” for my Cosmo.
The Vet Tech carries my Cosmo into the room in his fish-mouth bed – his favorite place to rest. Cosmo rushes out to greet me tangled in that damn IV tubing. He’s meowing and purring as he practically leaps into my arms. I hug him and kiss him and sing him our song. “Why do I love you? Why do you love me? How can there be two happy as we…?” My tears soak Cosmo’s fur as he eventually crawls back into his fish-mouth. The last words Cosmo heard were, “I love you, I love you I love you… ” It was 11:11a.m. The sky went from cloudy gray to brightest blue. My heart went from undying love to unbearable pain. How can I live without my Cosmo? I fall to my knees sobbing in a tsunami of the deepest grief coupled with the visceral pain of shock and loss. I can barely breathe. Then I see that flash and I feel that whoosh.
I have now lived over a year on this earth without my Cosmo. Although I thought it would surely take me out, that relentless pain unlike anything I have ever known did not kill me. I actually find myself smiling and laughing again. I am living a meaningful life, loving my cats, my friends and my family and being the best me I can be. And I miss Cosmo. I miss him every day, all the time. I do still cry when I think of him, but I no longer wonder. I now clearly remember. I have dug deep, through my grief to un-bury and at last open Cosmo’s treasure. There’s that beam of light. It’s his essence, as pure and as bright as was he. Feel that whoosh of joy. It’s his spirit, now soaring unbounded, now free. Now I know Cosmo lives in me. He died only in the 3-D.
So if I knew that tomorrow would be my last day on earth, I would emulate my Cosmo in every possible way. I picture my last day just like his (only without the fish-mouth bed), the culmination a profoundly meaningful and love-filled life. And just like Cosmo, I will be surrounded by love, beaming with light and whooshing with joy.
If tomorrow was my last day on earth…
…one thing I might want to do is savor the beauty of this planet before I leave. There are so many sublime spots in this world, so many places and landscapes that have left me breathless and mesmerized. I could start the day in a sunrise sanctuary of redwoods in Yosemite, and take my tranquil mind next to the rushing rainbow tides of Mont St Michel, off the coast of France. I could let my soul sing beside the pealing cathedrals of Salzburg, Austria, and then inhale the clover-green fragrance of the North Carolina mountains of my birth. At the end of the day, I could get to Pensacola in time for a shimmering sunset on the gulf coast. All of these places I have loved, and if there could be a lightning storm sometime during the day and the aurora borealis that night, I could die with the best of Earth’s profound beauty behind my eyelids.
But then I thought about sharing companionable meals with my loved ones that day. Since time in the kitchen is a touch of love for me, this wouldn’t have to involve a long road trip. Breakfast could be fragrant coffee on the back porch with my husband, and his famous “bird in a nest” grilled egg in toast, with birdsong and fountain music to accompany us. Lunch with friends would be mozzarella and tomato salad with fresh basil and pesto, cups of homemade chicken noodle soup, and crunchy sourdough bread. That evening, I’d make spaghetti sauce or garlic shrimp pasta with orange juice thrown in at the last minute – delicious. Either way, my daughters would be in the kitchen with me, and we would chop and peel and laugh together, great music playing, dogs lounging hopefully around us, waiting for a bite. After dinner, we’d sample from key lime pie, crème brulee, and something divinely chocolate, grinning at each other as we licked our spoons – and I could die with a smile of relational and culinary pleasure on my face.
But the more I have thought about both of these tantalizing possibilities, the more I have realized that neither is how I would spend my last day on earth. I have seen much of the earth’s astounding beauty, and, as my rounded form would indicate, I have sampled more than my fair share of its sumptuous food. But for my last day on earth, I think I would do what I have done most of the other days of my life.
Communicate.
I would want to spend time in the engrossing and magical process of significant exchange with those I love, the in-depth, heart-stirring level of talk that leaves us enthralled, intrigued, connected – and profoundly changed. I’m talking about those conversations that find you stunned to realize that the party is over, the day-long road trip has ended, the night has passed and sunrise is shining in through the window. In the words of Anne Morrow Lindbergh, “Good communication is as stimulating as black coffee, and just as hard to sleep after.” That is the kind of communication I would want to have that day, with my husband, with our daughters, with my family, and with my close friends.
But I would also want time to write things down. I would write last thoughts in my journal, and I would write letters to the people I love, but most particularly to my daughters. Since I have collected cards all of my life, I think I would select cards for every important occasion I could think of for the girls, and label them as such: “To be read on your wedding day.” “To be read when you become a mother.” “To be read when you want to give your kids away.” “To be read when you want to run away.” “To be read when you reach a pinnacle of success.” “To be read when you feel like you are a failure.”
When my talking and writing is done, I would communicate in the most essential way one can, breathing an earnest prayer of gratitude as my last day on earth ends.
If tomorrow were my last day on earth I’d walk the dogs. It wouldn’t matter how cold it was. It wouldn’t matter if there was snow on the ground. It wouldn’t even matter if I just didn’t feel like it. I would walk the dogs. I’d take out the 3 new leashes I’d bought for them, one pink, one blue, one plaid. (This, to make it easier to determine who was pulling me where and which dog I’d have to move to the right or the left, or in front or behind – just to get us untangled … It isn’t easy walking three dogs.) I’d put on my worn, blue Uggs (hand-me-down boots from my daughter), I’d wrap a big old woolen scarf, that I’d knit, around my neck and I’d say, “c’mon girls…we’re going for a walk!”
We’d all leave by way of the front door – Lady, the latest edition, a 6 year old Shepherd rescue, would charge out first; then Shaya, Dana and myself – in that order. We’d walk down the steps and onto the lawn (actually they’d run down the steps and I’d be pulled behind them) the new leashes would weave themselves into a web of color and leather and nylon (Dana’s is the nylon.) I’d pull one dog this way, the other one that, and then, after about half the way down Littleworth Lane, we’d get ourselves into a rhythm, each on pace with the other, us 4 females, 14 legs between us, and we’d walk all the way down the hill.
Our town is named Sea Cliff, so the long hill we’d descend (the same hill we’d have to climb up on the way back) leads us to the water. We’d walk along the shore, my 3 sweet girls and I, and I’d let them off lead and let them run. Run and chase and get sandy all over. I’d let them go into the water although I doubt that they’d dare – its winter you know, and the water is ice cold. I’d watch them and smile, and breathe in the salt and the sun and the sea. The world would be good.
I’d sit on the sand and the dogs would come by and eventually sit by my side. They’d look to me for guidance, alpha that I am. But I’d just look back deeply into their eyes, all 5 eager eyes (Shaya lost an eye to an injury.) And I wouldn’t have to say a word – they’d know. Dogs know. I wouldn’t have to say a word; but I would say 7 (my lucky number) I’d say, “I love you girls. Let’s go home.” Back on with the leashes, back up the hill, ready to go back from where I came. Yes, I’d definitely walk the dogs.
If tomorrow were my last day on earth, I would hop a plane to Jackson Hole, Wyoming, to see his face one last time. I would arrive even before the care package that I mailed today with the snow boots and granola bars. Goldfish crackers, envelopes of hot cocoa, a chapstick and mint milano cookies. And the ten dollar bill ~ not a lot of cash, but cheerful and heartening taped to one of the cocoa envelopes, Alexander Hamilton’s face side up.
I imagined his face, Michael’s, as he opened the box to investigate the small pleasures. Imagined his smile when he found the ibuprofen for his aching knees tucked into one boot. His aching- to- reach- his-goal knees. Skiing one hundred days in one Wyoming winter. And after he opened the box, dug into the goldfish, thumbed through the book, White Heat, A Memoir of an Extreme Skiing Life~ I imagined him reaching into the back pocket of his jeans for his cell phone to text (no one calls anymore, voices are rare), to text, “Hey Mom, got the package. You’re the best.” And reading it on my cell phone, I would smile to think of his.
He’s good to his mother. I have over seventy sea glass marbles to prove it. Marbles that he made a game of finding, on a rocky New England beach one summer. They jumped into the palm of his hand every day as if skipping to a magnet. His charm convinces the sea to give up her treasures. The cranky cat, Jack, purrs and sleeps on his bed. Teachers and employers write recommendations that sound like fan letters. And he, just throwing himself into every game with 100% commitment and 100% goodwill, keeps racking up the points.
I might say that games are Michael’s passion. Baseball. Soccer. Nintendo. Touch football. Whiffle ball. Hockey. Playstation. Golfing. Fly fishing. Surfing. Skiing. But it’s more than that. It’s wrestling challenge to the ground. It’s not knowing, and then learning, and then mastering. Right now, he’s looking to master a mountain.
If tomorrow were my last day on earth, I would have to see his crooked smile in person one more time. Look into his blue eyes – like a husky dog’s in color, but open and trusting. Filled with curiosity. Happiness. I would be under strict orders from my mother’s heart, to see his handsome face. Run my fingers through his unruly hair and hug his lanky, lean frame. He would give me back a sure and certain hug with no self-consciousness, and a sweet kiss hello, truly glad to see me.
We would talk with ease about how he is having this amazing experience. Skiing the life of his dreams. We would visit, in his tiny room at Hostel X, looking out over the continental divide, and he would answer all my questions about his new life. As I listened to him, watching his animated face, his excitement would become contagious. Even I, as his mother, would have to put aside my fears for his safety, fears of avalanches and broken limbs ~ and would be thrilled for him to hear of the jumps he nails, the crevices he leaps.
He would introduce me to the new friends he is making at the resort ~ and I would see, as they shook my hand, and talked of Michael, that they had already discovered he was something special. I would be proud, as I always have been, to be his mother. Proud when he was left in charge of catering functions at a small country club when he was a teenager. Proud when he went to San Diego without a job, and without knowing anybody, found employment in an engineering firm, and was invited to the boss’ house for Thanksgiving dinner. Proud when he maintained a 3.3 GPA at Northeastern University. Proud when he set off to Wyoming to live a four month dream of an adventure. Proud that he took me seriously, when I taught him to follow his passions.
Michael’s energy is, for me, all about joy, and if tomorrow were my last day on earth, I would have to get one more hit of that joy just in case there is no after life, and I wasn’t going to get another chance to hear his gravelly voice and his boyish laugh. I would hop a plane to Jackson Hole, Wyoming, wait at the bottom of a mountain covered with three feet of powered snow, to catch my son at the end of one of his runs, and lure him away for a brief visit. Not too long, after all, with only one day left on earth. Just long enough to imprint his face upon my heart before I leave.
Every January we hear a lot about New Year’s resolutions. I would have to say that after a year of big losses and introspection, your last day on earth, however scary, is a much more appropriate topic. We all have one, we just don’t know when. Even if you haven’t lost anyone, you have your job and your health, it’s a good idea to remind yourself of your blessings. For me, it’s another reinforcement of how short life is and how I should be spending my time more carefully.
If tomorrow were my last day on earth, I guess I’d be grateful for the heads up (after I finished freaking out). I would spend as much of that day as I could with the people I love. I’d remind my family how much I loved them and apologize for all the times I’ve upset them over the years. I’d tell my husband to let himself fall in love again and it was ok to remarry. I’d ask him to tell our daughter about me (the good parts anyway) and to make sure that whoever he found would be an involved mom and treat Claire as one of her own.
If you’re only being given one more day, do you cram in everything possible or do you stop and savor what you have left? I hope I end up with a lot of cramming interspersed with periods with periods of savoring. If I don’t get my wish, I would want to leave a legacy of sorts for our baby girl. I would want her to know what my biggest regrets and mistakes were so she could avoid them or at least choose carefully the ones she just had to experience for herself.
I would tell her to put your loved ones first. Live as if today were their last day on earth if you can. If you get married, marry your best friend. Lust is overrated (so is dusting). Don’t listen to grown ups who tell you to major in something practical in college (but for the love of God, go to college!). Work hard. Do not rely on someone else for your support and live within your means. Find what you love to do in life and make that your career if possible.
Forgive yourself and others, too. Keep your sense of humor. Try not to worry; it’s hazardous to your health. Don’t let fear stop you from questioning, loving and doing (no easy task but very worthwhile). I didn’t manage this as well as I had hoped. Find some small way to appreciate nature (despite your bug-wus heritage). God went to a lot of trouble to make such a gorgeous planet. You should at least look.
If you find yourself having a family, don’t let anyone tell you how you should or do feel about your child. Have faith in yourself. Let yourself be silly. If you feel like you’re losing your marbles and you’re being pulled into a crap vortex put this prayer on a card on your fridge. Lord, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. You’ll be amazed how much that covers.
Above all, remember you are loved.
P.S. I’d also eat a pound of Godiva dark chocolate truffles! ( and I wouldn’t share!)
I can’t seem to extinguish the fire you’ve lit in my body. If tomorrow were my last day on earth, I would choose to spend it with you. I don’t know who you are, or what you are, or why you are. I would choose to spend my time in the mystery of you. In your world. Watching the snow fall from the heavens. Wandering the quiet forest among soft light and curious shadows. I would splash in the river, even if it were only 3 degrees outside—melting ice if need-be with my fire-breath. I would laugh and sing and pray. I would dance. I would paint. I would roll my body down a steep snowy hill. I would watch the sky, with you. I would watch the sun creep and crawl down to earth, with you. I would touch you. I would navigate the infiinte blueness of your eyes. I would become perfectly still.
When the light of day was gone…..I would go home.
He knew that tomorrow would be the last day of his life. He went to work, his state uniform, a tan work shirt with an embroidered emblem and Carrhartt pants, relatively clean. He drove to the rental property and found the gopher hose. He noticed the leaks and stopped by Ace Hardware to fix it. Sometime that day he wrote the four-page letter to his wife, that he left in an envelope on the bed, along with the sixteen hundred dollars he received when he closed the only bank account in his name.
That evening, they had dinner with the family of his youngest son’s best friend. The Tidwell’s had just returned from Florida, where they had attended the funeral of Mike Tidwell’s younger brother, who drank himself to death and left behind a family and financial responsibilities. There is no doubt that Louis was properly consoling and shook his head back and forth in wonder.
I’m sure that he went to sleep at his usual hour. Sleeping in bed with his wife was not his habit. At about 9:30 he probably crawled into his funky sleeping bag with a copy of Newsweek or the day’s paper, and was out cold on the living room rug by 10 PM. His teenage sons, side by side at their computers, were most likely annoyed with the rattling and shaking of his snores as they tried to finish up homework.
He was the only coffee drinker in the house. Relegated to a press pot that I had given him years ago for Christmas, he would get up and make himself coffee every morning. He was not a fussy coffee drinker. He had a plastic tub of Folger’s in the freezer. I wonder if his wife has cleaned out the freezer yet?
At 7 AM, he grabbed his the generic cotton cloth sack he used as a gym bag. He worked out on the morning of his death. Treadmill, weights, etc. If it were me, I would have walked in the redwood forest, drank a large latte, and ate a gooey pastry at the upscale Brio café. But he worked out. He showered and put his uniform back on. He went home and hooked up the gopher hose to the exhaust of his truck. He took off his uniform and put it, belt and all, into his laundry basket. He put his pajamas back on, took a few sleeping pills, grabbed an old copy of Smithsonian Magazine, started the truck’s engine and crawled into the back to read.
Bernice Lewis
1/8/09
