On Friday morning, February 23, 2007, my father, Bob David Sr., took his last breath. He was 81. I can hardly convey my gratitude for the way events played out over the last trying months, days, and hours of his life, and for all the gifts he gave me during that time and following. Here are a few details. ...more

“Lift her up, Lord! Take that fluid from her body. I’m going to keep on praying to you day and night... Almighty God, make her well. Which will be a great testimony to you for all patients and doctors and nurses to see.” These were prayers of the sister of a 47-year-old black Baptist woman who was critically ill with cancer. ...more

One Christmas day the whole family came together, as was the custom: my father, stepmother, younger and older sisters, older brother, possibly two grandmothers, maybe an aunt and uncle, and, I recall, various step-relations.

I was 15 or 16 years old. We exchanged gifts and consumed a great big midday meal, desserts and everything. The pressure of the festivities had me ready to explode. So my brother and I decided to leave the family gathering, as was our custom, for some adventure of our own. ...more

I enjoyed calling my friend “Mr. Bill,” because I truly respected him that much. I was a person who never respected anyone.

We were both abused in the home. I was born into a family of alcoholics. No pretty words can describe my parents: they were drunks. My dad was a mean drunk. ...more

As I faced the impending death of my beloved father, Alex Schoenbrun, I wondered how many more times I would feel satisfied saying and hearing “I love you” so that it would last me the rest of my life. ...more

As far as I know, aside from stamping out ice cream cones in a factory when he was a teenager, my father’s entire working career revolved around the selling of alcoholic beverages. He began as a high school student helping out in the tavern purchased by his father, who had accumulated a fortune building houses before losing it in the Crash of 1929 and trying another avenue to get back on his feet. ...more

SEVENTEEN YEARS ago, I was thrown into a cell in the Segregation Unit at Holman prison for conspiring to escape. I felt as if I had been pitched head first into the open jaws of a monster, a monster whose roar was the sound of steel banging against steel; whose moan, the whispering of schemers late into the night; whose cry, the whimper of tortured souls shadowboxing demons; and whose smell, a rank mixture of rat shit, body odor, urine, and disinfectant. The gullet of this beast—a narrow hall ankle-deep in trash and bits of food—fed nightly armies of roaches and mice. ...more

At 12 years old I was in a constant struggle with discipline and how things were supposed to be. I didn’t feel good inside. Everyone said I was bright, but school always meant problems. Poor grades, taking forever to learn, bad attitude, and mouthing off to teachers and coaches. I couldn’t care less. I would lie and cheat if I could get away with it. ...more

I’d rather not write about you, because writing about you means you’re somewhere else. I’d rather not write in the second person, as if the ‘you' (you) were right here instead of at Mt. Auburn Hospital in your pajamas. ...more

It was August 2009 when my father and “the kids”—my two sisters, my brother, and I—were sitting at Mum’s bedside on the 19th floor of Mass General Hospital, in the thoracic ward, watching her closely and awaiting the latest word from her surgical and oncological team. On September 23, in the wee hours of the morning, she died.

The last words I remember her speaking were, “We’re off and away!”… And so we were! A year later, aboard our home away from home for the past three years, ...more