Driving down the canyon, sun slanted, squinting, listening to Joan Didion talk about her faith, it occurs to me: this is not death, this is moving on. I repeat it over and over, never having learned this before,
Infiltration
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Driving down the canyon, sun slanted, squinting, listening to Joan Didion talk about her faith, it occurs to me: this is not death, this is moving on. I repeat it over and over, never having learned this before,
1. Shana Tova. How has it been? he asks, | the beautiful man with the sad eyes who I see each year | on this day, in the same spot, his tallis on his | shoulders, his white kipah covering his head. | Rough, I say.