Cheng Cheng has never found snow so detestable. The blizzard has paralyzed JFK, triggering an unending stream of apologetic announcements: yet more delays. The benches are crammed.
He sat on the porch of the nursing home next to his auntie. Aunt Ella had gotten old, not before her time, but right on time, though she had become much older than the last visit to the home. Uncle Tony, her brother, the fighter, the prisoner-of-war, he was old prematurely, only he still looked like a dopy teenager.
May the wax drops from a blessed candle spill over my navel to seal my corpse. Lay the large sacred image that hung for decades over my deathbedRaphael’s Madonna della seggiolaon top of my open coffin, so the mourners around the casket, come to pray and chant and pay their respects, may no longer see my face in death.