Bruce Meyer

My Father’s City

My Father’s City Reminiscing about growing up in the west end of the city, he never took me there. Cables of streetcar avenues sparked as whales on tracks passed by and made each building shudder, There on a rainy night, lights reflecting on the sidewalks, and the stores that once led different lives, a theatre …

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Winter

  Now that I’m white-haired I don’t hate my mother for naming me for the time of year I was born. She was of that generation who thought it cool to name a kid after a season. I know five Summers, three Autumns, and two Springs, although the latter get wisecracks about being loose. Winter, …

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