When Tibby arrived on her first night with us, we let her out into the fenced backyard. On the steps, she paused for an instant, ears up, nose twitching, poised like an Olympic sprinter in the starting blocks. In the twilight, something caught her eye. Slowly, she stalked, like a panther, into the grass. Then she dashed, disappearing under the arborvitae. In a moment, Tibby emerged, triumphant, shaking a small rabbit between her jaws.

August, and the PS.104 schoolyard was empty. A good thing. Gave me a chance to develop my pitching arm. And avoid trouble. As a white kid in the South Bronx in 1967, trouble had a way of finding me.

The reader fanned the deck of cards on the table and invited me to touch them. With my right hand, I moved them in a circle, counterclockwise and confessed that I was considering abandoning my career.

In my earliest memory, I am falling. The last of the afternoon light is nothing but a whisper as dusk makes her provocative entrance—a lingering tease before the dark comes all at once.

I am lying alone on an operating table. Bright lights are shimmering above my head. I cannot speak. I am surrounded by strangers. People who have met me only moments before. And yet, I am held hostage to their intellect, their experience, their wisdom and their compassion.

You’re driving through the beginning of a snowfall that will probably bring at least a foot, the road already white with salt, slippery with cold in some places. The black Chrysler PT Cruiser is a shape a car probably shouldn’t be.

I loved my babysitter, Eileen. She ran cross-country track and strutted around bare legged in a varsity warm-up jacket. Her name was emblazoned in gold letters on the back, and there was a sneaker with wings on the sleeve.

“What happens after we die?” is a question that has intrigued humanity for millenniums and is perhaps the greatest enigma of all time. Of the estimated 118 billion humans that have died, zero returned with conclusive proof of an afterlife.

When I was in my late teens, seven of my father’s male friends died within a year and a half. Not husbands of my mother’s women friends. These were men my father knew independent of Mom. I don’t remember him outwardly showing emotion though I’m sure he was, at the very least, sad.

Well before dawn at 4:30 a.m., Chrysti and I met at the Humane Borders truck yard, loaded our gear for the day into the water truck, checked the tires, gas gauge and water tank levels, climbed into the truck and headed out to US 286 toward the border. We had the roads pretty much to ourselves.

The first day, early morning

I wake up to lights in my face again. Right in my eyes, beaming back through a crack in my head. This is at least the eighteenth time they’ve come by in one night. I’m counting them like sheep to pass the time as they cycle in, their voices changing every couple hours.

Windshield shatters as a spider web rendition that augurs worse to come. A transforming moment, mind informs, a new normal launches now. “Damage report, Mr. Spock,” fills ears from St. Louis freshman memories of Star Trek when a ten-inch TV box peeked through dorm desk detritus to instill space flight fantasies beside what lectures handed down of conniving bishops and their kings.

He gazes at me large-eyed as I flip through the album pages of the tinged-with-age black-and-white photographs. I hoist him over my shoulder, pat his back gently for a burp and continue to peruse images of myself—baby me cradled in my father’s arms as I now cradle my son, three-year old me uncomfortably groomed and garbed for a birthday party…

There is space on the edge of language where it is quiet but far from empty. It is the space where life is at it should be. I happened upon it by chance one summer between my first and second year of legal existence while scratching at the wall next to my crib on the first floor of the Au Style Modern’ tailoring shop in the village of Tauves in the Auvergne region of France.

A rider was drawing closer, through the light fog rising from the forested hills around Stockton. The ladies had initially considered the pursuer as merely another gallivant taking some exercise, but the man on the horse was taking no leisurely route, rather a direct line toward their carriage.
“Have no fear,” said the coachman. “I am a tolerable shot at a hundred feet.”

“Can we talk?”
He sounds almost too forceful in his delivery, the tone of his voice transforming his question into an attack, so he selects his next set of words deliberately, knowing he’d only have one shot at his opening.

After spending a year in Northern Spain with my father’s sister’s family, I reunited with my parents and siblings in Bogotá, Colombia, instead of our home in Los Angeles, California. My parents were starting over again from scratch and setting up shop to establish themselves. Mom, who was a perpetual optimist, had recently hit the jackpot, and with an endless display of excitement she was paying-off debts, shopping for new home furniture, and preparing for my milestone birthday celebration.

I lose myself in Taiwan. That’s why I hate going there, feeling like a deer in the headlights; perhaps this time the buzzing crowds, alien sounds of chitter-chatter, and layered characters on never-ending menus will feel more like home. It doesn’t.

Sitting in front of the murky Han River, I don’t even see my own reflections. I hear remnants of life here and there: a group of senior joggers, a street saxophonist whose confidence is admirable, and a little girl screaming at something—kids always seem to see another dimension we don’t.

I could not sleep at all last night. My mind was in an unending hyper-focus mode. It’s like those songs that have the algorithm that deliberately make it so you can’t get them out of your head. Mind worms. Plus, I kept thinking about the blood.

I have been told that I am visually, and stereotypically gay. I don’t know exactly what that means, but I take it without an angry or even aggravated reaction.

When I was quite a bit younger, I accepted that I was unconsciously flamboyant, which I confess, I didn’t like, being a teen student in a judgmental arena.

To my parents’ dismay, I took full advantage of New York City’s disco era in the late 1970s till the mid-80s. I did go to NYU undergraduate, but if someone asks, “What was your major?” I answer “Night Life.”

Athletic vitality invites gym walls of vivid colors, players spilling onto courts with crimson tones fitting coming contests yet pale walls circumscribe this setting, matching well-worn olive sweatshirts, khaki pants and lemon tees as men of subdued spirit shuffle in beneath torn net strands, symbols of their fall.

I was walking the trails through the oak forest on our property, looking for the pair of pileated woodpeckers I could hear furiously pounding their heads against a tree trunk. My phone rang with a similar rhythmic urgency in my pocket, as though in conversation with the woodpeckers.