If you see me walking down the street, you will notice my red silk parasol, and you will think (if not say it right out loud) I want to invite that girl to my birthday party.
A Story is Meant to be Passed Around
It was on that trip that my father first shared with me his love of sunsets at sea. He and I were the only passengers who never got seasick. So, at times it was just him and me on deck, savoring the display of colors, which was different each evening; the sound of the ship, rising and falling, as it cut through the ocean; the salty taste of the sea spray on our lips.
“Terrorists are unpredictable.” The tag line under the talking head identified him as an expert in terrorism. I had turned on the early morning news program to entertain myself as I packed.
It was October 30, 2002, the last day of my four-day visit to New York City — and barely a year since nineteen fanatics — aka terrorists — from Saudi Arabia and other Middle Eastern countries had piloted two passenger-laden planes into the World Trade Center.
Tom moved his strong purposeful fingers across the piano keys. The music we had heard the day before, as we watched the pine trees move to the graceful rhythm of the late afternoon wind, filled the room.
His magic never ceases to amaze me: he hears music before anyone else. He didn’t create the sound of the wind through the trees; he created the music they made.
Writing Shed 