Sid Kurzbard

I am grateful for one last laugh with a man who was always kind to me. Who counted me among his own when he didn’t have to. When others looked beyond me. When I tried my best to be invisible.

Yesterday he joked. Kissed my hand. Brought it slow and shaky to his concave lips. His voice, nearly lost, leaned into me and whispered, “If you need anything, let me know.” And my Great Grandmother smiled, looked a little shocked, and turned to me. “He’s never said that to anyone else. Just you. That was just for you.” She turns to him, “Huh Sid, that was just for hir”. His eyes met mine. And he nodded. And I knew then, that I had his respect and that he had seen me all along.

A Layer of Dust

Going back to Southern California is like returning to the scene of a crime. Each exit of a freeway is a clue, a trigger, a flashback. Those long lanes twist and turn. They are clogged veins of a childhood, a loss, a loneliness.

But there is sun. Too much light shining on all that hurt. Drying those dark rich streams. Fading them. Making them brittle. But they are not gone. They are the dust below our feet. The grime beneath our nails. And no matter how frequently we sweep or scrape, we will never be rid of them.

Still we let the sun kiss our cheeks. And you call it paradise. When really, you are just grateful for a sun that blinds.