A sparrow fluttered along the subway concourse. A cricket skittered along the juncture of the tiled wall and floor. One pixel in a mural-sized advertising display flickered. Motes of dust shifted in the vagaries of air currents stirred by a thousand passing feet, and Muhammad saw every detail.

He was alive only by virtue of the fact that the subway car that had fallen from the tracks and now pinned him against the platform was keeping his guts from slipping out. The paramedic assured him with compassion that he would die as soon as the emergency workers jacked the car back onto the tracks. Nothing could be done for him.

The jacks were in position but the operators delayed. They were hoping to raise Muhammad's wife on the phone so that he could speak to her one last time, but she appeared to be lost somewhere between cell towers, and he heard only her request that he leave a message.

The old man sat on a park bench slightly apart from the crowd surrounding the veiled statue. He absorbed snatches of conversations that drifted on the warm summer breeze.

“Mommy, what's that?”

“It's a statue, dear.”

Other voices intruded.

“Do you think he'll be here?”

“Who?”

The little girl asked a new question.

“Why's it all covered up?”

“It's new.”

A tall man looking around gained the crowd's attention.

“Look, a limo just arrived.”

The old man's head turned in unison with those on the outer fringes who had heard the announcement. They saw a large woman emerge.

“Oh my God! It's his wife.”

Secretary Burnside shifted his weight again and continued to scowl. “What the hell am I supposed to see?” he asked with a glance towards Nelson, his assistant.

“I don't know, sir,” Nelson stammered.

“Who does?”

“The technician who brought it to our attention.”

“Why isn't he here?”

“I didn't think it would be appropriate, sir.”

“What?” the Secretary demanded.

“Well...” Nelson began and paused as he looked for help from the other staff members. 

They concentrated on avoiding his eyes.

The Secretary picked up his cigar and rolled it between his fingers. Everyone could see that he wanted to light up, but smoking wasn't allowed in government offices.

“Get him.”

The technician arrived within minutes, smiling at the discomfort of the man who had earlier barred his admission to the inner sanctum.

Mother was a gentle woman, a genteel woman, whom my brother and I tormented as only loving sons might. We arrived home at odd hours with bumps and scrapes and strange sounding lies of how we had acquired them. Of course, mom was convinced that our friends had jumped from a cliff and we had followed after them. Isn't that what all mothers believe? Then there was the time I shot myself in the head with a pellet rifle. Poor mom almost swooned as my brother applied cold, wet compresses and drove us to the hospital, but that's another story...

Then there were the practical jokes that were neither practical nor funny. However, they were inspired by our mother's strange beliefs. For example, she never removed the product label from a piece of bedding or furniture for fear of breaking the law. The labels in those days didn't contain the key phrase “EXCEPT BY THE CONSUMER”. Oh, and we didn't have “POLYSTYRENE FOAM BEADS” either nor cell phones, nor a lot of other things.

Is there any more nostalgic memory than cutting down your own Christmas tree? Have you been tempted to start your own tradition? Don't!

I was living in Colorado, in Fort Collins, north of Denver, when the spirit moved me to cut down my own Christmas tree. As it turned out, it was a malevolent spirit.

Fort Collins is nestled up against the foothills on the eastern slope of the Rocky Mountains. The tree farm, I was informed, was an hour's drive along the Cache La Poudre River which drains a portion of the Roosevelt National Forest and emerges onto the high plains in Larimer County. 

I prepared myself and my young family for the excursion with a trip to the hardware store where I purchased a new axe. Although it was the first I ever owned, I was no stranger to this tool. I had used many, my father's for one and a couple that I swung in the Army before I became an officer. Unfortunately, my experience didn't include the proper preparation of an axe for its first use. I simply checked the edge which seemed keen as it was factory-sharpened and decided that I couldn't improve upon it. Little did I realize there was another, more important factor.

I was waiting for my wife at the mall when...

“Excuse me, officer,” the elderly woman at my elbow interrupted. “That man threatened me.”

I couldn't help glancing in the direction of the perp who scowled at me when our eyes met. That's how it always starts.

Looking now at the victim, I smiled and repeated the familiar refrain, “I'm sorry, ma'am. I can't help you. I'm not a policeman.”

Why do I even try? They never believe me.