Shoulders! Shoulders! As a child, I loved to ride on my father's shoulders. Sitting up there, I rubbed the bald spot on his head. From seeing too much, he explained of the hair loss.
Daddy, tell me the story again, I asked, of how you were shot. Later, I would retell the story to every elementary school friend and stranger who would listen.
My father was there reporting for The Boston Globe on the beginning of the Israeli army's monthlong siege on then-Palestinian Authority President Yasser Arafat's compound.
He pinched his thumb and pointer finger until they nearly touched; the space between them the distance of the bullet.
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