Wander around Washington, DC long enough in a bow tie and a flag pin, you can land any number of free five-course meals replete with stemware and a salad fork. This luncheon was something special though.
Causes, in many ways, similar to those that felled the young men I knew: jungle rot, youthful folly, despair, and gunfire.
“White expats like to say there are three types of us in Africa: missionaries, mercenaries, and misfits. I was, obviously, the misfit.”
This is a scared man’s bet.
Many birders keep track of the birds we’ve seen on a “Life List,” with species, date and location.
The cancer chews holes in my bones.
I lose pieces of my skull.
I saw the dream hens waking and stretching their wings, remembering the sky.
“If I fly far enough, the blue lights will engulf me and carry me up.”
Each excavation into a lost object revealed a hidden truth—a genuine regret. But it also threw into relief how lucky I have been, to have accumulated these regrets, and survived them.
I see that my own fears, like a misdirecting valve in the heart, can interfere with tenderness.