Arts & Culture

On this flight to Pittsburgh the man next to me reads the latest thriller with lips aflutter.

He reads with Talmudic fervency divining the permanent in black and white.

I look half-eyed at the city splayed gray below me- the air clear, spires of scrapers just below the wings. This morning, making my son's bed his room came alive with signs of his being- the pillow shaped to the curve of his head- and the air that carried the scent of him as sheet and blanket crested, passed through me true as God's unutterable name.

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