an old writer and his words

  • YEARBOOK REFLECTION

    Knowing that mybiological parents’pictures were somewherein the yearbooksI had before meI thought that Iwould search withoutlooking at the names. No one lookedat all like the meI see in the mirrornor the me I amshocked to seein my own yearbook. Yet finding themby name I quicklyrealized that Iwas their amalgama face neitherwould have recognizedno matter howsmall…

    Lou Faber

  • CLOSE ENOUGH TO HEAR

    We sit around the small tablesglad to be out of the sunwhose midday glare seemsto blind the drivers slowlyapproaching the Jetty Park lot. A family chatters, the childrenlaughing at nothing, at everything,and nearby a dog lays outdreaming of a good walkand dinner, hoping for scraps. We can hear the waterof the inlet, the waves breakingonto…

    Lou Faber

  • JACKPOT

    I’m not a gambler,never have been, knowingthe house always had the oddsand every play wasa sucker’s bet for sure.I might kill an houron a business tripto Las Vegas going throughfour dollars at the nickel slots,one play for eachoriginal nickel, winningsset aside for rolling. Twenty-one years agotoday I hit the grand jackpotstanding nervously on the stepsof…

    Lou Faber

  • IMMIGRATION

    When you got off the boatyou must have been scared,but getting away from that lifemade the fear bearable. I have no idea how you endedup in West Virginia, it wasn’tat all like Lithuania, and Jewsmight have had two heads I imagine. But you all made do, madea community, invited othersand were tolerated if odd,and I…

    Lou Faber

  • STARING

    She sits demurely on the stepstaring off at something.You want to know what buther face isn’t saying, her eyessoft, revealing nothing, her smileenticing, teasing, and out of grasp. You want to sit with her, seewhat she looks at, what has capturedher thoughts, and there is roomon the step for you to join her,but you have…

    Lou Faber

  • ETERNAL SPRING

    Spring has arrived, however begrudgingly,and the young woman pushesthe older woman’s wheelchairalong the paths of the great park.Neither speaks, but each knowsthis could be the last time they do this.That shared knowledge paintseach flower in a more vibrant hue,each fallen petal is quicklybut individually mourned for,its beauty draining back into the soil.The older woman struggles…

    Lou Faber

  • FALLING

    I fell deeply in love with herstanding in a small jeweler’s shopin Bangor, Wales on a November morning.In truth, cradling a small silverCeltic cross in my handsI knew then that Itaken that plungewithin moments of our meetingand recognition of itwas all that remained.

    Lou Faber

  • HOW WOULD I KNOW

    It is highly likelythat I snored mostof last night, I cannotbe certain but my wifesays I did and sheis rarely wrongabout such things. I would liketo blame iton my back, discsbulging where theyought not, titaniumrods claiming theyhold the whole thingtogether, but Icannot be certainof that either onceI slip into sleep. I am temptedto stay up…

    Lou Faber

  • LINKAGE

    Linking things is a human need,tenuous forces barely holdingacross synapses easily brokenor lost, never to be replaced. Ithaca is forever joined withGalway City, and I still have notfigured out how to get the twopeople together as together isobviously what they should be. She sits at a small tablein the Commons, staring, waitingperhaps for a writer…

    Lou Faber

  • MY ANNA

    Along the banks of the barge canalin the village park, a manolder, his hair white, almosta mane, sits on the breakwallfeeding Wonder breadto the small flotilla of ducks.Tearing shreds of crustfrom a slice, he casts itonto the water and smilesas they bob for the crumbs.He tells them the storyof his life as thoughthey were his…

    Lou Faber