Smitty sat on the sun-baked roof of his 17 story apartment building located on the corner of South St. and Pearl on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. From such a lofty vantage point, he could see the breathtaking view of the Brooklyn skyline, easily defined by the infamous Brooklyn Bridge. Ever since he could remember, that bridge had been there and he had come to find it’s constant presence reassuring. Not much in his fucked-up life was a constant, but knowing that it was there every single day, acting as a gateway for ass-hole Brooklynites to gain easy access to his beloved city and all the dreams it withheld, made him feel like somewhere, for someone, life still held possibilities.

We never said goodbyes in my house. Not when we were leaving for work, or school or to just hang-out. Goodbyes were final. Goodbyes were scary and, as a kid, I had enough scary things going on without having to worry about a simple goodbye. The day my oldest brother, Joe, left our family to join the Witness Protection Program started off like any other day only instead of my mother leaving for work and my father ushering the rest of us off to school so he could drink his way to oblivion, my parents left together with Joe.

She was two when we met. Bright and beautiful, with the biggest brown eyes I had ever seen. Her dark hair, the same chestnut color as mine, was naturally curly, with ringlets that framed her face like a Botticelli angel. I knew from the moment I held her in my arms, that she was mine. But, she wasn’t, not really.

Once upon a time, she used to cook. She enjoyed preparing large meals for her family. Pot roast with potatoes and carrots, homemade lasagna, or their favorite, chicken soup with Matzo balls, made from scratch. They loved them all and she loved making them. But, that was back then. Back when she still cleaned, still washed, still cared.

There were secrets in my house. Whispers at night hid them. Daylight would illuminate most. The shouting would announce the rest. Except for one. For two weeks, things had been a little different. The whispers grew urgent, desperate. For a 9-year-old, these muted words suggested some new horror, some missing information, something that they were too afraid to openly argue about.

Parents tell lies, it's what they do. "Of course there's a Santa". "Nothing's ever going to hurt you" and "There are no monsters" are just a few that I was told. This is a story about just one more ... enjoy!

Is anyone's life normal and what is normal? These are my stories about life, longing, pain and dysfunction. They may not be happy, but they are real. Hope you enjoy.