As I was preparing to finish this week’s edition of the paper, I learned that my grandfather, Alvin Eisenman, had died in his sleep the night before. It wasn’t a surprise — he was 92 — but a flood of reflection followed. He is, after all, the reason I do what I do.
The fact of the matter is that man was born with feet and arms, not wings. We are by fact of our design not intended to take flight.
One day as I chopped vegetables for a simmering stew, a warm summer out my open patio door, a tiny bird joined me on a living room lamp. From the kitchen, the bird’s chirps sounded sweet, a song I was learning to listen for in this new found summer of freedom.