My San Francisco is a series of posts that describes my own personal relationship with The City. My San Francisco pieces might be photo essays; they might be life stories or they could be commentaries. They might be a combination of some or all three. My impressions aren’t always paeans to San Francisco; it’s a …
You passed them by as they left and you looked the other way, awkward, nothing to say. They were already gone, ghosts who’s memories haunted the productions lines.
With the approach of Thanksgiving dad’s combativeness withdrew, replaced by a light in his eye and a spark in his spirit.
I was changed but not completely. She was the one in ten. She was no longer just a running partner, she was my best friend.
On a winter night in the 1970’s, Ross Alley was a dark, dank place pocked with ruts and potholes filled with rainwater that reflected the few dim lights in its close confines. Here the bustle of Chinatown was muted
We sat on the couch together as we have for 38 years and it dawned on me that Cora and Nana have become inextricably tied. And I recognized that this was a good thing.
There is pain. And then there is pain. It’s the pain that cleaves your heart and makes you feel as if you’re tumbling into a chasm with no end. It’s the pain that exhausts you to sleep.
