For three months, Mr. Lin sat on the bus’s upper deck, scowling out the window. Children pointed. Laughed. Only because he scared them.
For three months, Mr. Lin sat on the bus’s upper deck, struggling to compose a letter to his wife. String together words he hoped made sense. I pressed the forget-me-knots you gave me between the pages of your favorite book. Our grandchildren are smart and strong. You’ll never receive the last postcard I sent from America. I miss you. The doctors say they regret you’ll never be a day over 60. My heart is broken.
(This is a tribute to my friend Laurel Leigh who died from lung cancer. Laurel never smoked. She had a wonderful laugh, was a giving spirit, and was my first writing instructor – who became a loving friend. She will never be a day over 60. Yeh, I know, life isn’t fair.)