Please believe me when I tell you that I picked up each soul that day as if it were newly born. I even kissed a few weary, poisoned cheeks. I listened to their last, gasping cries. Their vanishing words. I watched their love visions and freed them from their fear.

It amazes me what humans can do, even when streams are flowing down their faces and they stagger on, coughing and searching, and finding.

People have defining moments, i suppose, especially when they're children.

They were French, they were Jews, and they were you.

The impoverished always try to keep moving, as if relocating might help. They ignore the reality that a new version of the same old problem will be waiting at the end of the trip- the relative you cringe to kiss.

She took a step and didn't want to take any more, but she did.

Papa was a man with silver eyes, not dead ones. Papa was an accordion! But his bellows were all empty. Nothing went in and nothing came out.