geoffrey gevalt

Writer, editor, journalist, digital storyteller and founder of Young writers Project



A pillow’s length away, I’m hearing the quick, quiet shallow breaths of The Kid. My own are deeper, further apart, maybe one for every three he takes. We have shared a lot on ten years as friends and now colleagues, and this night, we happen to share a bed. This moment of unusual proximity sets my…



DIVINE RIGHT: CHAPTER III  | Sun & Steel // The Land of Night Armies

He hit her so hard that the cheering of the crowd vanished into a dull ring. But she didn’t fall. She staggered back one step, two. Her head was spinning and the pain was searing up the side of her jaw, but she let it slip away, sliding one foot back, preparing. She would take the next blow too.

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Hats off to Champlain College II

My second prompt for a workshop at the Champlain College Young Writers’ Conference and a story of my own, created with the same prompt, a while ago.

Dr. Christ

Oct. 4, 1960

To know him was to see his smile
feel his warmth, his thick
soft hands, his keen blue eyes
watching, welcoming,
as you spoke, as you answered,
"How are you?" Because,
He really did want you to answer.
He was my doctor.
He was my Dad’s doctor.
Dr. Christ.

We, together sometimes, would visit him, far away
in the big city
we, two,
bound by one thing,
one word,
Such a harsh word then,
so unknown now.
My Dad was struck down, as they said;
survived a war and all its invasions
only to be felled one hot summer evening.
He lost his legs, as he’d say,
and the family focused on him
to help his recovery, to pray.
I was too young to know,
just two, then three.
It was then they figured out
that maybe there was a reason
I rather would crawl than walk.

My Dad and i would visit him,
our doctor,
Dr. Christ.
I was five or six
when they straightened me out on that one.
I thought he really was
the brother of Jesus,
the way he’d lay his hands on my legs,
or stretch my muscles,
the way he’d prod and wiggle my knees and ankles
or have me walk
without the hand rails.
"Greist, Geoffrey," they said with a laugh. “‘G’ not ‘C.’"

And so my Dad and I would visit him,
our doctor,
in his green-walled office
with the high leather table
that would squeak when I
sat down,
grip my skin as I moved,
the room smelling so clean,
like no smell at all.
My Dad would wait outside
then, it’d be his turn.
Later, we’d rive home in the long night’s silence,
and when I awoke, I’d be home,
and my Mom would help me
He would write sometimes, Dr. Christ,
to say hello, to ask whether
I was doing my exercises.
He’d prescribed skating,
lots of skating,
pushing a green chair across the pond,
and swimming,
laps down at the lake,
back and forth between the float lines.

By 9 the threat
of a brace was long gone, and,
one day,
Dr. Christ came to see us at home,
My Dad and me,
our doctor.
He saw Dad first and then me,
"How are you?" he asked, and
ushered me outside,
his thick, soft hands guiding the way out back
to the lawn,
our two-acre lawn that went to the field.
It was a cold early fall day,
crisp leaves, gray wind. October.
"Run to the hedgerow and back," he said.
"Can you do that? Can you do that without falling?"
I took off,
all the way in the tall grass
almost tripping
but not
all the way back
without falling
first time
He raised me up to the sky and,
as I slipped down in his grasp,
I felt the stubble of his beard against my cheek,
and he held me close and said,
in my ear,
"Don’t ever stop trying, Geoffrey. Don’t ever stop trying."

He stayed for early supper
and then was off
he had a drive ahead
and a plane to catch
he was going to see his daughter.
But his plane never made it,
forty-seven seconds from takeoff,
it ran into a flock of starlings
and came down in the bay.
A murmuration of starlings.


A recent post on that honors Sarah Blanding, a mentor and former president of Vassar College.



(Note: This picture of Sally Young Gevalt was taken in 1946 in Havana, Cuba, on my parents’ honeymoon. I never saw her sun herself. By the time I was a kid, she had developed an allergy to sun. The music is “Catherine Wheel” composed by David Ludwig, a friend.)

My favorite time to call my Mom was at night when I was doing the dishes. I hate washing the dishes and to me, checking in with her was the best possible diversion. So, phone crooked between my neck and shoulder, I got a chore done and, well, listened.

My Mom was a talker. People say that about me, but I’m not even in the same league as my Mom. My Mom could talk about any subject whatsoever. And what was amazing about her, is that in the course of her conversation — particularly with a stranger — she could find out their entire life history yet you’d swear the other person never got a word in edgewise.

My Mom was a big-hearted person. Her life centered around my Dad — and me and my brothers. She was also a little insecure; you could tell her, “Mom, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you.” And she’s respond, “Oh, you’re just saying that.”

Our phone conversations, over the years, changed. When I first leapt out on my own, she was filled with questions: “How’s your job? What stories have you been working on? You have a girlfriend yet?” When I got married, she asked how my wife was doing, whether we were happy, “When are you going to have kids?” As we did, she asked all sorts of questions about them. As my Mom and Dad got older, more of the conversation was about him, how she was worried and then about how much she missed him.

After she moved out of her house, she didn’t ask many questions. She told me what bones were aching, how she didn’t like some of the people she was around, how she wasn’t feeling well. “When are you coming to visit?” she’d say. Or, “I’ve lived long enough. If I get sick, don’t do anything. Just let me go.”

In early March 2005, she called. “I’m going into surgery,” she said. “I just wanted you to know. Here, talk to the surgeon.” I got the low down. They were wheeling her down the hall. She got back on the cell phone.

"I’m coming down," I said.

"You don’t need to do that," she said.

"I know," I said. "Hang in there. I’ll see you when you get out."

She was in the operating room for 8 hours — not good for an 85-year-old. Not good at all. When they wheeled her to her room, she had tubes coming out everywhere; she was on a ventilator. Gradually we learned she was in an induced coma, that it was likely had some “neurological damage” as they say. “The surgery was rough,” the doctor said.

Over several days, my brothers came around to the decision we knew we had to make. So, with her minister in the room, a nurse removed the tubes, gently cleaned her face and brushed her hair. We knew it would take time. After a while, the minister left, and then my brothers — they’d seen enough, said enough. But I stayed.

I rigged up my son’s iPod to play her favorites — Copland and Beethoven and Mozart. I sat beside her, nodding off as the pulse of the monitors lulled me to sleep. Around 6 a.m., a nurse shook me awake. “It’s time,” she said.

I went to my Mom and pressed my forehead against hers. She used to do that when we were kids and we were sick. It was to feel whether we had a fever, but she’d linger and say “I want to hear what you’re thinking.” I thought of that as I felt her forehead against mine and then I felt a deep, last breath and she was gone, the monitor issuing a long steady pulse until the nurse shut it off.

I straightened up. As I did, the sun peaked over the horizon and the room was flooded with glorious, golden light. Dawn. My mom’s new beginning.