Barefoot Sermon in Blue Flannel
We met God on a sidewalk in Poughkeepsie on a crisp fall morning. His feet were bare, his body wrapped in a blue flannel sheet. My husband and I were helping serve hot breakfasts on paper plates, 207 in all that day. I lifted the 138th plate and said, softly offering, “Would you like some more eggs, sir?” He lifted weary eyes, tender as dawn, and with bruised lips whispered, “No, thank you … others still need to eat.” In his hunger, he showed us what love is: quiet, selfless, enduring, boundless. — Karen Dipnarine-Saroop
A Balm for Darkening Days
I am a night owl through and through. Left to my own devices, I am addicted to endless content and ensnared in labyrinthine dilemmas. My thoughts are like oil, or rather the burning of it, twisting like smoke into the void. I thought this would never change, but since we fell in love, I am happy to wake at dawn with you. Like bluish-purple morning glories, you rise with the sun. To me, you are the sun. The rays of your smile warm and comfort me, radiating energy to face the new day. I cocoon myself into you in anticipation. — Amy Wu
Her Caller ID
Feeling rattled, I anxiously called my wife. “My childhood home has been bulldozed.” My best friend lived next door. Our Beaufort, S.C., yard led to a creek. I broke my arm there and learned that even painful things can heal. From Durham, my wife took this in; shared my grief; told me that all most have of their homeplaces are memories. We spoke some more until I could restart my truck, regain my emotional footing. “Let’s talk again tomorrow,” she said. Ending the call, it wasn’t her name that lit up next to her number, but the word “Home.” — Frank Hyman
The Music of the Sea
After dinner my grandmother, Eleanor, sits at the piano. She’s forgotten my name, and her own. She strains her creased, glistening eyes to read the music in front of her, but cannot. But, suddenly, like waves crashing against shore, George Posca’s “By The Sea” floods the living room. The notes pour perfectly from her memory, cascading through the French doors, the breeze carrying them out to the Atlantic. My family sits — frozen, mouths agape — in awe and reverence. Now our eyes glisten, with love and wonder. Alzheimer’s robbed my grandmother of so much, yet so much is never lost. — Abigail Wasserman
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