I’d rather not write about you, because writing about you means you’re somewhere else. I’d rather not write in the second person, as if the ‘you' (you) were right here instead of at Mt. Auburn Hospital in your pajamas. ...more

The convicts and I, a volunteer, sit in a circle in the prison. We do this every Thanksgiving. Eyes closed, we imagine sitting around a table in a clearing surrounded by a woods in which the parts of ourselves we have exiled live a furtive life.

We sense inside for any exile who might feel safe enough with us now to step out of the woods and join us at the feast. ...more

It was August 2009 when my father and “the kids”—my two sisters, my brother, and I—were sitting at Mum’s bedside on the 19th floor of Mass General Hospital, in the thoracic ward, watching her closely and awaiting the latest word from her surgical and oncological team. On September 23, in the wee hours of the morning, she died.

The last words I remember her speaking were, “We’re off and away!”… And so we were! A year later, aboard our home away from home for the past three years, ...more

After 13 years of seeing each other only occasionally, I couldn't understand at first what Jerry's brother was doing in my living room, nor could I comprehend what he was saying. "Jerry… accident… hospital… not good.” I listened again, harder. There had been an accident, and the man I loved was now in a coma. We had often kidded about who would die first; I always made him promise to let me be the one. The truth was, I couldn't see a future without him. And now here I was, being told he might be dying. ...more