Pain. It was a word I experienced long before I assembled the letters. The syllable slipping from my lips feels empty, yet reminiscent, like the lingering aroma of wine after the cup has been drained. Stray drops drip down the vessel, coalescing into a puddle that dries into a red stain, a memento of a drink consumed to the dregs.

We bought a Christmas tree today. It was a real one with bark, sap, and pine needles that fall all over your grandma’s carpet. From the time your father was a boy, we’ve had a fake tree with pre-installed lights. All we had to do was decorate it and plug it in. It may have been plastic, but it was so special to us.

That hilltop was a table soon to be laid with a carrion feast. Ravenous vultures circled, the beat of their wings a rhythmic cry for food. They awaited the men who would prepare their banquet. These birds were kings engorging themselves on delicacies set by the hands of others. Theirs was prey without the hunt, a grace gifted without work.

Like tendrils grasping upward the city’s spires reached to the azure heaven above. Lazy clouds wisped and floated by the towers seeking to scrape the sky. Perched atop a fire escape railing in a dark alley, a dingy brown pigeon watched the heavenly puffs drift leisurely on their own. No struggle for motion, merely a wind-breath to breeze them along. The bird’s eyes were mirrors moving with the breathy billows.