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I am finding it hard to keep up with the young, black pastor’s flow of words.
The clouds above us are twisted, as if the sun has wrestled them to break through.
The long, garden shrouds are the perfect ending my glum rule-of-three walk.
Everyone in the concert hall, including the orchestra, waits for my daughter to play a single note.
Looking around my hotel room, I’m suddenly aware of all the concentric circles.
There’s something missing in our country’s formula for a modern-day Thanksgiving.