An excerpt from Sleeping Birds Do Not Sing, a novel about mental illness and friendship that I wrote a decade ago that only one person has ever read—until now.
“Something doesn’t feel right… I don’t feel right. My body. I feel like I’m filled with cancer.”
“She’s lost a lot of weight,” I heard someone say at a lunch table near ours. “Like so much she could die.”
Recently, my wife and I began a couple’s love journal titled Why I Love You—a love story, in our own words.
The portly woman had her own path to be exact, worn white into the grass that led to her car. After this curiosity, I reached into my coat pocket and retrieved a folded copy of “The Last Leaf,” by O. Henry that I had printed prior to my departure from Charlottesville earlier in the day. “Don’t laugh at me,” I said to my then-girlfriend. “I’m going to read you a short story.”