Sprocks·Oct 30Being the Age Your Parents Were When You Remember ThemI turned thirty-nine last spring, and somewhere around the third week of being that specific age, I did the arithmetic that apparently…
Sprocks·Oct 28Anger Is Usually Grief in Work ClothesThe year my father’s eyes were failing — the waiting-rooms year, the corridors, the tests, the slow official arithmetic that would end with…
Sprocks·Oct 26The Playground at Dusk, When You're Thirty-FiveCutting through the park at dusk last week, I passed the playground — empty, gates pushed to, the swings hanging dead straight in the…
Sprocks·Oct 26The Coat by the Door That Belongs to Everyone and No OneBy the back door of my parents’ house there is a coat on a hook, and if you asked whose it is, no one could tell you, and that is the…
Sprocks·Sep 7My Father’s Phone VoiceMy father answers the telephone in a voice I have never heard him use anywhere else, and it took me forty years to understand what I was…
