Regina Brett
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By the time we learned that Jim had brain cancer, our dear friend was heading to hospice.
“Do something! Do something!” the crowd chanted at the vigil in Dayton.
Getting lost is a fine art that’s fading away.
My grandson stood at home plate, fingers Velcroed around the bat, feet poised to sprint around the bases.
The old German train car parked on the railroad tracks outside gives you pause, a pause dearly needed before you step inside the museum.
The tall row of doors stood open to let the masses in as if Lady Liberty herself had swung them wide open.
