. . . a hand cast adrift into an empty sea of air, helpless, until there on the horizon, an island to beach it . . . I’ve begun to clutch and grab things for support in my wide open floorplan world, my fingerprints if dusted would be fresh evidence I now see why a small cluttered home would be ideal for retirement, ease of transportation and a solution to keep these two legs traveling their regular routes and no need for assistance if one can lay a hand on things that d

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