[Fiction, not single-page] A father, his sons, and what he teaches them:
When we got home from school Paps was in the kitchen, cooking and listening to music and feeling fine. He whiffed the steam coming off a pot, then clapped his hands together and rubbed them briskly. His eyes were wet and sparkled with giddy life. He turned up the volume on the stereo and it was mambo, it was Tito Puente.
“Watch out,” he said, and spun, with grace, on one slippered foot, his bathrobe twirling out around him. In his ﬁst was a glistening, greasy metal spatula, which he pumped in the air to the beat of the bongo drums.