it's that we keep (i)redeeming(i) ourselves," a little brother told an older brother. The husbands had come from a thick cloud of rubble and debris dust. Previews of all of us old and gray.
One wife took a wet cloth out of a plastic bag and wiped a man's lips. They kissed like no tomorrow. Another furtively approached one of the men and spoke low and shy. "All those people, this morning, were outside the neighbor's place because," her voice trembled and the tears came. The man put down a shovel and held the woman close. "Our neighbor died," he told everyone. "He was old."
"Letting you know I'm not dead," the text read. People at the Wailing Wall were in the shade with the sun above, out of reach.
"No, they're not dead. But America is so far away, I (i)grieve(i) them."
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