what luck, to be a fly that sneaks into a house through an open window on a spring morning I lose track of it, sure the lingering kitchen odors will lure it there to land on sticky spills or crumbs, very sure its eyes will grow into saucers of pleasure as it probes and samples the unique tastes by late afternoon, as light from the same opening beckons it to come home that window will be closed the glass becoming a cruel magic trick, a confusing barrier it pushes hard

My father was Dr. Richard Elston Hunter, second generation dentist and five-star general in the fight against sugar. So it must have been with liberal generosity, or maybe even greater kid pressure, that he allowed Friday night to become Coke Night, each of us boys allowed one 6.5 oz bottle of the dark sweet throat burn, with potato chips, to nurse through episodes of Star Trek, Bonanza and the Man from U.N.C.L.E. One night he brought home two teeth pulled at work and lef

is hard to read like a book without a title or a black book labeled with black letters and one would guess hiding a plot of murder, mystery, tragedy or shocking revelation and yet the hardest faces I’ve risked opening, revealed a fragile story, a broken soul, poorly mended a brittle human one relatable enough that I will turn their pages as gently as I do my own story’s and if anonymous histories mirror much of each other, then every hard face you see is simply a