First of the Season
Michael Ubaldi, November 6, 2006.
On the first syllable of the word "camera" was where my father stopped. Thursday evening dinner with my mother and father had ended and I was leaving for home, and when I opened the front door and turned back to say goodbye to my parents the conversation was arrested by the unnatural half-sentence. I met my father's expression, seconds passing in slow motion as I contemplated what could be seen over my shoulder and through the storm door's glass panel.
The east side of Cleveland had a forecast for an inch or two, but cold winds sweeping across a warm Lake Erie must have shifted a bit towards the south and west.
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