Losing them, fixing them, forgetting to put them in
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Richard Jay Goldstein has been writing for almost thirty years. He’s a lapsed emergency-room doctor and has published sixty-something stories and essays. He lives with his wife, kids, and grandkids in the mountains east of Santa Fe, New Mexico.
Then ahead I saw a small, dark shape perched on the sand, well back from the water. As I drew closer, the shape revealed itself to be a bird, sitting back on its tail feathers. It was vaguely penguin-like, about eighteen inches tall, with black back and head, white breast and cheeks.
Mark’s forehead smacks against the visor, but he’s held in by the steering wheel. Cindi finds herself in the air, and there is a moment of crazy exhilaration as she sees the jeep spin beneath her, as if some childhood dream of flying has come true.