In a flat I rest. My neighbor, her blooms are fresh. And the rich look down.
I touched her hull but she barely twitched. “I am tired, hurt, and scared,” she said in a rattled whisper.
She was weighed down by generations of neglect and good intentions. She wanted to it all to be over, to be put to rest. The ice in the Hudson heard her and tried to help, only to be plucked from obliviation by good intentions once again.
For many years, I have chafed against the endless obligations, and often insincere, tokens of celebration.| This year, my daughter sent me two pieces of coal. (Charcoal actually.) And for the first time in many years, I smiled broadly and without reservation. You see, gifts should be given out of kindness and appreciation and good…