Sunday, February 7, 1999
At church I speak imprudently. “I hate this church bag!” Kindly Spencer intervenes. “Dad. Don’t say ‘hate’.”
Friday, July 25, 2003:
Grandpa comes home, with Kyle. They have just dressed their son, their father for his burial. Grandpa smiles, his bright blue eyes wide open (familiar?), relating with weighty solemnity what happened and how it all felt. He sees his second, now his oldest surviving son. “You got some sun, did you Steve?” Are the glancing things always this poignant, if we could see them?