Where does hope hide

In photos of cremated babies

What happens to hope in a world devoid of color

Can she bury her thoughts on this black and white planet

Layered in pulverized gray dust masking the faces of the decapitated

Or in the melted black ashes of iPhone pics of weddings and bar mitzvahs

Where does she hide in the body of a raped and mutilated 16-year-old girl

Do her hands cover her eyes on viewing the elderly butchered in their homes

And does she wipe away her tears with a red heart-shaped napkin

Raising her head and closing her eyes to avoid seeing the blood-soaked floors

Putting a cloth up to her nose

One soaked in sweet temple oils to avoid the stench of death

While covering her ears to avoid the wails of screaming orphans

And tasting the fear clinging the bodies of the hostages

All the while knowing that we’ll pray or say, “Hope is not lost”

And feel her fist dig deep into our gut

I stare into the mirror, horrified by a new crop of gray hairs sprouting in my eyebrows. Counting the grays, I remind myself how these grays conquered my scalp and mustache. And I whisper, “Well, that’s life.”

And as I say the word “life,” a Gabriel García Márquez quote pops into my mind:

“Everyone has three lives: a public life, a private life, and a secret life.”

I love its simplicity.

I love its beauty.

I know my public life is shared and exposed with my readers. How sad or lucky for you.

I know my private life is only shared with my inner circle. How sad or lucky for them.

Finally, I wonder, “What about my secret life?”

I share it with no one.

I’m not Catholic, so I don’t share it with a priest.

I don’t visit a psychiatrist, so I don’t share it with a shrink.

But I do share it with G-d? (Yom Kippur)

Well, it’s still a secret life because G-d isn’t going to blab about it.

I might be sharing it with my departed relatives, if heaven forbid, they’re watching me.

Who knows? But they’re not going to rat me out.

Most of my secret life is buried in the earth of my past. Where I have edited it into strands of graying memories. Memories of what could have been, if only I had done that or taken a risk. Sad memories of lost opportunities. Happy memories of courageous acts leading to unforgettable experiences.

And some of these memories turn into dreams which I do not share with friends or family.

Secret white dreams hidden in my dark secret life. Where my imagination runs wild. And X-rated scenes appear from the land of make believe.

A make-believe world filled with thoughts created in the shower or on the bowl or in bed when I am alone;

A solitude world filled with sniffs and licks and X-rated thoughts.

Thoughts not to be voiced for fear of being labeled a “pervert.”

Okay perverts, now ask yourselves, “Would anybody pay the price of a movie ticket to see your public life or your private life? You know the answer.

But confess, your secret life would draw a line of viewers circling the theater.

And we all should thank G-d, for those short gray hairs, for the genius of Gabriel García Márquez, and for our X-rated secret lives.

For they make our lives so much more interesting.

I stare into the mirror, horrified by a new crop of gray hairs sprouting in my eyebrows. Counting the grays, I remind myself how these grays conquered my scalp and mustache. And I whisper, “Well, that’s life.”

And as I say the word “life,” a Gabriel García Márquez quote pops into my mind:

“Everyone has three lives: a public life, a private life, and a secret life.”

I love its simplicity.

I love its beauty.

I know my public life is shared and exposed with my readers. How sad or lucky for you.

I know my private life is only shared with my inner circle. How sad or lucky for them.

Finally, I wonder, “What about my secret life?”

I share it with no one.

I’m not Catholic, so I don’t share it with a priest.

I don’t visit a psychiatrist, so I don’t share it with a shrink.

But I do share it with G-d? (Yom Kippur)

Well, it’s still a secret life because G-d isn’t going to blab about it.

I might be sharing it with my departed relatives, if heaven forbid, they’re watching me.

Who knows? But they’re not going to rat me out.

Most of my secret life is buried in the earth of my past. Where I have edited it into strands of graying memories. Memories of what could have been, if only I had done that or taken a risk. Sad memories of lost opportunities. Happy memories of courageous acts leading to unforgettable experiences.

And some of these memories turn into dreams which I do not share with friends or family.

Secret white dreams hidden in my dark secret life. Where my imagination runs wild. And X-rated scenes appear from the land of make believe.

A make-believe world filled with thoughts created in the shower or on the bowl or in bed when I am alone;

A solitude world filled with sniffs and licks and X-rated thoughts.

Thoughts not to be voiced for fear of being labeled a “pervert.”

Okay perverts, now ask yourselves, “Would anybody pay the price of a movie ticket to see your public life or your private life? You know the answer.

But confess, your secret life would draw a line of viewers circling the theater.

And we all should thank G-d, for those short gray hairs, for the genius of Gabriel García Márquez, and for our X-rated secret lives.

For they make our lives so much more interesting.

At eight in the morning, Carlo sat at his kitchen table pouring a shot of Baileys Irish Cream into his coffee. He wrapped his hands around the cup, stealing its warmth. As his java cooled, Carlo inhaled its sweet aroma. Now he turned his attention to reading social media. Carlo paused to rub his eyes in disbelief. Ten days earlier, he was in the secure bunker at Mar-a-Lago helping the ex-president prepare for his mug shot and arraignment in Atlanta. At that meeting, he joked with the ex-president, “Donald, you have the ability to sell anything. You could even sell your flatulence in fancy glass bottles to your gulls.”

Carlo watched as Donald’s eyes lit up. Trump said something like, “Ya know, that’s an interesting idea because my farts don’t stink. That’s because I eat McDonald’s burgers and drink a lot of Diet Coke.”

Carlo thought, “Surely, he realized I was just kidding.”

But now right in front of his blue eyes, he read the advertisement posted on Truth Social: :

Now You Can Own Your Own Piece of Your Favorite President Housed in a Magnificent Perfume Bottle

Introducing Trump’s Passing Wind Cologne, a fragrance that captures 45’s essence, elegance and charisma.

Be the first person in your neighborhood to display Trump’s Passing Wind Cologne on your living room mantel. It’s a fragrance you’ll never forget! It makes a great topic for conversation..

These limited edition Baccarat crystal bottles are adorned with brown accents, filled with the President’s own gases and embossed with the President’s face and autograph.

Let Trump’s Passing Wind Cologne set you free.

It’ a kiss that keeps on smelling.

Make your stain on the world and leave a lasting impression on your friends.

For a limited time, you can own a treasure that we guarantee you will only increase in value. Remember to leave our eau de toilette to your kids as part of their inheritance.

The House of Trump Perfume Company has just obtained a limited quantity of Donald’s gases through the use of modern toilet technology. We’re able to vacuum hydrogen sulphide gases right as they leave the President’s body. For the low price of $39.99, we’re selling these bottled gases only to loyal Republican voters. As the President said, “You can almost smell the squeeze.”

This holiday season, our manly scent makes a great Christmas gift to place in a stocking or  under the tree.

If you know a person who has everything, this is an item we bet they don’t have.

Hurry and order now, before supplies run out.

Carlo sipped his coffee. Then he chuckled, “Every grifter knows there’s a sucker born every minute of the day. And I bet Donald will sell a million bottles.”