To a dog lover like me, the notion of seeking consolation from a cat is comparable to seeking compassion from a pathological narcissist. Nevertheless, my father alleged that, as a pre-teen, he found solace in his family’s cat, Peter. There’s even a photo of Dad …
Embers still smoldered in hearts of Harlemites two years after the Holy Uprising when torched shops blazed because a lone bullet in Memphis pierced MLK’s right cheek. Only three years before, assassins riddled Malcolm X with 21 gunshot wounds in Harlem’s Audubon Ballroom. Death threats …
Beneath a gazebo, wearing a canary housedress, her matted hair having outlived numerous stylists, an old woman catalogs the skeletons of her lifetime. Joining her on the short arm of an L-shaped bench, I ask, “You got somebody here?” “They’re all spread out.” She gestures …
The day before Valentine’s Day, Dad called and told me he planned to take Mom to a psychiatrist to get her drugs strong enough to “drive the devil out.”
