VeeLee's profile

Sarah stands on the bridge, looking over the bay, her mittened hands holding a tin can. It is not flashy, this can, it cannot properly be described as decorative, but it has a certain classic appeal. Silver, with a matte finish, and a size that would accommodate two dozen small cookies. You would not be embarrassed to give a holiday gift in this tin. In fact, you might feel a delicate sense of superiority over those whose tins are covered with gaudy candy canes or santas. Likely you would not...

The living room is dark because he hasn’t bothered with the lights. It’s raining and the front door is open. His lit cigarette glows and fades with each drag like a distant orange star. He is sitting and smoking, drinking and sitting. There is ice in the glass, or maybe there isn’t. Maybe there was ice in the glass, but it’s melted now and the whiskey has gone thin. Maybe this is what puts him over the edge, gets him up out of his chair to go after something. What is certain is that he trips ...

My daughter is crying. In her room, with her father. There is some altercation over bedtime stories. I resist the urge to get involved, to fix the problem my way. But here she comes, seeking me out, thinking that I’ll take her side. It’s not a stretch; I often do take her side. Overcompensating because of my inherent distrust in the justice meted out by fathers. It’s unfair. He’s her father, not mine. Not only does he have the necessary tools, he also has the desire to do the right thing. But...

The Lunch From his perspective, it’s bad. Really bad. I get it. The story as he told it makes me look like such an ogre that his entire side of the family has all but disowned me. My great aunt, of whom I have so many happy memories, turned away from me at his memorial service. He must have told them about the lunch—it’s the only explanation I have for their behavior. Let me tell you what happened. My father had cancer. Throat cancer, to be precise. It was discovered by accident, when the tub...

The Lunch From his perspective, it’s bad. Really bad. I get it. The story as he told it makes me look like such an ogre that his entire side of the family has all but disowned me. My great aunt, of whom I have so many happy memories, turned aside when I tried to say hello to her at his memorial service. I couldn’t have been less a person to her if I had turned into a ficus tree on the spot. But I digress. Let me tell you what happened. My father had cancer. Throat cancer, to be precise. It wa...