Losing them, fixing them, forgetting to put them in
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Dane Cervine’s latest book is a collection of poems and essays titled How Therapists Dance. His teenage son, Gabe Kittle-Cervine, has recently discovered he’s a spoken-word poet and can be seen on YouTube reciting his work.
At the edge of town in Merced, California, sits a pale building whose sign says, “The Gun Runner.” A shooting range and retail outlet for rifles, pistols, and any kind of bullet you might need, it is owned and operated by Sandy, a friend of my family’s and the only true psychic I know. Her husband, Gary, whom I’ve never met, helps her run the place. I haven’t seen Sandy for years, not since my father died and she came to the funeral to tell my mother, my siblings, and me what Dad wanted her to communicate: that he had passed over and was filled with love for us and awe at life’s immensity and regret over whatever hurt his depression might have caused everyone. We trusted Sandy and always welcomed her glimpses into the “other side.”