an itinerant observer

It’s Sunday morning and I’m lost in the graveyard, again. Although I’ve been here several times now, over the past month or so, the disorderliness of graves confounds my ability to find the one I seek. I’m ready to kick myself, again, for I am unable to adroitly navigate this graveyard. I mean how many graveyards does one get to recurrently visit in one’s lifetime? Can’t be several. Being too much of a male about figuring out directions on one’s own, or perhaps just being stubborn, plain and simple, I refuse to ask the grave digger-cum-gardener for guidance.    “How many times will you have to come here before the track becomes as familiar to you as the lines on your palms?” I ask myself, somewhat rhetorically. I backtrack to where the narrow excuse of a path splits; and this time I make a left turn, towards the boundary wall of the cemetery, in hopes of finding that grave. I read several names, dates of birth, dates of death, and of course epitaphs, on tombst...

Dear Yoda, As you know Dad had a massive stroke about a month back. The stroke was like Hurricane Harvey in several respects; it occurred around the same time as Harvey, and like the hurricane, it was of unexpected intensity, and left devastation in its wake. Those who read (perhaps enjoy) my rambling (writing), you included, might recall the story I wrote about Dad and his health issues , dementia per se, not too long ago. I received flak for writing about Dad – in fact, one person came very close  to calling it a sacrilegious act of airing one’s dirty laundry. Then there were others, like you, who called the writing a courageous act. I thought I was just writing to clear my head, and since it helped me do so, I decided to share it ahead. Little did I know then, that Dad was rapidly hurtling towards a stroke (or vice versa?). The night before the stroke, Dad was quite functional - walking around, asking for a kebab sandwich and his small red pills (the wretched L...