A New Kind of Literary Pulse

We drove south on York Road, passing the large brick house that always stole my attention. I peered past my mother's arms and the steering wheel, to take another long, unblinking look. The exterio ... [+]

The black man who approached from the rear of the gathering at my father's burial looked to be one hundred years old. He was frail, but not bent. He walked haltingly, supported by two black ... [+]