Ralph sat upright in his recliner, his legs splayed out before him. His hands, resting between his knees, quavered furiously. Ralph sighed. How, he thought, could he ask Elizabeth to marry him when he couldn’t even hold out the engagement ring without shaking like a cornstalk in the wind?
Would she laugh at him? he wondered. No, Elizabeth wasn’t cruel, but how could she possibly not feel the revulsion that Ralph felt for himself? She wouldn’t give voice to that emotion, but that only made it worse. Ralph had once owned a three-legged dog, but his father had scolded him, saying he should settle for nothing less than perfection, and dad had the dog put to sleep. When Ralph subsequently developed his tremor, his father had regarded him as something less than he had before.
In 1930s Germany, Ralph knew, he would have suffered sterilization so that his infirmity could not be passed on to future generations. Or, he might have himself been put to death. He let out a breath. Why me? he used to wonder. At length, he had conjured an answer: Why not me? Besides, by now, he was used to it. He took up the jeweler’s box and extracted the ring, weighed it in his palm, contemplated his intense, primal love for Elizabeth for a moment, then said aloud, “I’ll ask her. Tonight!”
They sat in his living room, a fire crackling in the fireplace on this, the night before Christmas. The tree scented the room with balsam. Ralph was nervous. He had never asked anyone to marry him before; he’d never had the nerve. Also, he had never been in love before. She sat beside him on the sofa, waiting expectantly, he thought. He held the jeweler’s box behind a throw pillow; he didn’t want to frighten her away. Could she really accept him? he wondered desperately.
He was not anyone’s idea of perfection, certainly not his father’s. His childhood rejection by his dad figured prominently in Ralph’s memory, and it’s what made him the man he was today. Elizabeth, on the other hand, was perfection itself. He had never known a nobler, more exquisitely lovely creature before. If she said yes, then she would be his mate, his lover, his wife. A bead of perspiration appeared on his brow. Nervously, he wiped it away with the hand holding the box.
“What’s that, Ralph?” Elizabeth asked unexpectedly.
“Huh?” he said stupidly, hiding the box again. But it was too late.
“What have you got there, Ralph?” she asked anew, pointing to the hand holding the ring box.
Ralph brought the box into view and murmured, “Liz, I was going to ask you…ask you to marry me.”
“Have you changed your mind?” she asked boldly.
He blinked. “No…No, I…Will you marry me, Liz?” he implored. “I know I have a lot of faults,” he began. “But, I love you, and…”
“Shut up, Ralph,” she said gently. “You had me at “Will you marry me?’ “
Ralph smiled, leaned in for a kiss, being careful not to bump Elizabeth’s walker.
Are you still 66? I’m 60 now. I’ve done the best I could since your death.
Do you remember when you told your friend that “only Leslie is unsettled”? I was 30 then, the night before you died. That’s when you said it, at the theater; I overheard you. I know you meant that you wanted me to marry and have a family. Later I broke up with Dany. I married Val, the one you thought had a nice voice, from Iran. You had a conversation with him once in the living room while I was in the kitchen. You told him that you had a relative from Iran, and I walked in when you said that, surprised.
Dad was very lonely without you. I thought he would never let me go. He convinced Val to move in when we got engaged. And after the wedding, he made it nice for Val to stay. Too nice! We finally moved to 53rd and 8th Avenue, all the way up on the 20th floor. I wish you could have seen it. I was close to Central Park and Lincoln Center and Coliseum Books and Lechters.
Debi and I used all your tickets to the opera. We didn’t like it at first, but we’d make a day of it: lunch with Susie, Martha, and Anna Burak, and sometimes Tower Records afterwards to get the CD of the opera we’d just seen. I wore your fur-lined coat and mostly took naps in your seat. Then, one night Placido Domingo sang Nessun Dorma, and I cried so much, but I was really crying for you. I feel, when I am at the opera house, that you are near me. It is almost unbearable.
Beatrice dated Dad for a few months. She wore your clothes, used your Dooney and Bourke wallet, like she wanted to be you. She even offered to brush my hair and I let her. They broke up, and a few years later her cancer returned and she passed away.
Aaron was born in the same hospital where you had me, and – can you believe it? – my OB was trained by Dr. Landsman. When I went into labor, I had to fill out forms at the hospital, and where it asked for the mother’s name, instead of writing my name, I wrote yours.
Aaron looked just like you when he was born, and I gave him the middle name Yves in your honor. I was out-of-my-mind in love with him. In all the blissful moments of his babyhood, I felt like you were a part of me, delighting in him.
Oliver is your last grandchild. Again I was in love. We moved to the Parker Towers, a rental across the street from Debi’s building in Queens. It reminded me of our old Kew Gardens apartment. It was the same set-up: two-bedroom, two-bath, eat-in kitchen, balcony, a friendly doorman, the same whoosh of air when you closed the front door. I had a view of the World Trade Center, your favorite place to take out-of-towners.
Val and I split up soon after Oliver was born. Everything about being with Val became too difficult. Also, we didn’t have any help, and I had to do everything you did for me and work in an office as well. He moved out, and I was a single mother until Oliver’s fourth birthday.
Those were difficult years, with little money and a lot of loneliness. Debi was my constant companion, like a mother to me and also my best friend. Dorian was kind, leaving me cash in my junk drawer and paying for my airfare to visit him. He called me all day long. Once when I was in California visiting him, his cellphone rang and everyone looked around wondering who it could be because I was right there.
Dad married Anna Greenberg’s cousin Nina. After that, we were no longer welcome at his house unless we were expressly invited. If we were invited, I couldn’t even get a glass of water without asking. Once, when my boys were with Val for the weekend, I called Dad to see if he wanted my company. “Another time,” he said. He didn’t know that I was parked outside. Then I saw Anna’s son pull up with his family. He had Chinese food. He walked in as if the house were his.
After we divorced, Val and I fell in love again. He moved back to the Queens apartment, and Debi and Dad didn’t speak to me anymore. I was disowned. Birthdays and Jewish holidays were particularly painful. I once saw from my kitchen window Dad entering Debi’s building with flowers for Passover. When I turned 40, Val told me I had a call, and I ran to the phone while asking him if it was my father. The look on his face was pure pity, so I knew it wasn’t. Dorian was my champion, tried to mediate, and took my side as my protector. He always picked up the phone when I called him. It took three years before I convinced Dad to let me back into his life. Debi followed soon after.
Val and I bought a house together in Westchester. We remarried in the living room, our sons our only witnesses.
Aaron is grown now. He lives with his girlfriend in Washington Heights, and they talk of getting married. Oliver is 24 and home with us. He graduated from Queens College, like you and me.
I have a dog, Rhoda, whom I love more than anything in the world.
At the end of Dad’s life, he was sick for a month in the hospital. Every day the nurse asked him for his birthday, and he would proudly pronounce “3/25/25,” but on his actual birthday he couldn’t remember. In his delirium he called for you. “Ou est Yvette?” He is buried next to you in Mount Hebron. Soon it will be his 100th birthday.
We sold the house after Dad died. That was hard. Debi and I packed 40 years of memories with nowhere to put them. I still regret throwing out the shearling jacket you bought me in Italy and Dad’s certificate from the New York Institute of Technology.
Sometimes I wonder what you would make of the world I live in now:
Manicures and pedicures can cost $85 with tip.
Donald Trump is President.
The Twin Towers are no longer standing.
It is fashionable to live in Brooklyn.
There are no more phone booths and fewer and fewer parking meters.
Coins are insignificant.
Loehman’s and Lord & Taylor don’t exist, but Saks does.
No one dresses up or wears pantyhose. You would think they leave the house in their pajamas.
People hardly go to the movies. Miraculously, the Paris Theater is there. That’s where we saw Crossing Delancey, or maybe it was Cousin Cousine. The Ziegfeld, too. We saw Star Wars there with Dad on a hot summer night.
I get my hair colored by Javier, your colorist. I sought him out because I always loved your hair color.
I still go to Carmel on 108th Street to get lebne and pita and kashkaval cheese and sambousek.
All your friends are gone except for Vally. Do you remember when Val and I met you and Vally at the theater to see Three Tall Women, and we thought it was so funny that they had such similar names. She looks the same, by the way.
May died of cancer; all your sisters, too. They died after you, even though you were the baby.
Debi lost Stanley, and he is also buried in Mount Hebron.
Dorian will be 75 next month. He is still in Walnut Creek, although in a different house. He and Claudia had twins.
Debi is 70 and is in the same apartment. Alix Austin lives with her. Remember how she broke his heart when they were teenagers?
You have a great-grandson, Benjamin. He is three and looks like Chloe, and a little bit like Debi.
Dany never married.
I write a lot about you. It is like having you with me, especially how you laugh or the sound of your gold bangles. How you got mad at me for imitating your accent when I said, “When you are right, you are right.” How you couldn’t stop yourself from eating cheese and drinking the whole container of kefir.
I can cook almost all of your food, like gratin and mejadra, but not the rice pilaf.
I live in New Rochelle. I remember you used to go shopping there for clothing, and I thought it sounded so fancy. My house is shelved with all your precious books, and on the walls is the artwork you collected. I framed your library card with your signature, and I have it on my desk.
Laurie Anderson is still performing.
Spalding Gray died by suicide.
Pavarotti died, too. I had a chance to see him on stage at the Met.
Woody Allen continues to make movies, and he married Soon Yi.
I went to a dinner and Salman Rushdie was there. He wore a patch over one eye because he had been stabbed.
I won a prize for my writing. That was one of the times I missed you the most.
I also missed you when I got married and then when I got divorced. I missed you when I had Aaron and then Oliver. I missed that they didn’t know you. I missed you when I got fired from the bank because I couldn’t do it all, at least not well.
I miss you when I read a really great book and I can’t share it with you. Do you remember how we read all of Paul Auster’s books, one after the other? He is gone too.
I used to be afraid that I would forget your voice, but I now know I never will.
Love,
Lellybelle
Leslie Lisbona was featured in the Style section of The New York Times in March 2024.
Aside from Synchronized Chaos, the first journal that ever accepted her work, she has been published in JMWW, Smoky Blue Literary & Arts Magazine, and Welter. Her work has been nominated for Sundress Publications’ Best of the Net 2024 contest and won the nonfiction prize at Bar Bar Magazine (2024 BarBe Award) https://bebarbar.com/2025-barbes/
She is the child of immigrants from Beirut, Lebanon, and grew up in Queens, NY.
In today’s career-focused world, people have different views as to whether paying salary to workers depending on their productivity is a better approach to motivate them to work harder, particularly in professionally advanced communities. While there is a wide range of alternatives for encouraging employees to work harder, I firmly assert that paying salary based on their production and sales plays a crucial role for both employees and organizations.
First and foremost, there are obvious alternatives for motivating workers to work better. Once companies enforce free holiday opportunities for those who work efficiently, this makes a big difference in terms of a greater feeling of agreement and contentment, leading to a productive working process. So, workers are highly likely to be motivated easily. Furthermore, building a collective responsibility among colleagues in companies can be another method for encouragement. To be more precise, if workers learn how to collaborate, it seems unsurprising for them to experience a sense of leadership while simultaneously trying to show off their capability to their boss, thus resulting in a greater number of sales or production.
Meanwhile, despite these arguments, proponents of paying salary to employees based on their productivity cite compelling reasons to support their stance. To clarify further, productivity has been prevalently acknowledged for its effectiveness—a feature that sets it apart from other job sectors that pay all workers equally. As a result, it seems logical for companies to impose a certain amount of salary based on how much an employee produces, thereby motivating them to work harder. The more they produce or sell, the more income they earn. A good case in point can be my country, Uzbekistan, where a new initiative has been set up so that even part-time workers earn more due to their high amount of production or sales than full-time ones.
To sum up, although other initiatives such as cooperation among colleagues and free holiday chances offer some benefits, I strongly believe that only by paying workers based on their production or sales can we ensure that they take responsibility for working effectively.
Jasmina Rashidova, daughter of Bahodir, born on November 23rd, 2008, in the Shakhrisabz district of Kashkadarya Region, Uzbekistan. Currently, I am a 10th-grade student at the 74th school. I have earned recognition in various educational grants and have actively participated in international MUN conferences and meetings. I have also won several education-related contests and competitions, and I am a finalist in “BBG”, “FO”, “Katta Liderlar granti’25” and “VHG.” In addition, I run my own online teaching channel. I am also proud to be the recipient of a major leadership grant for my #pixelart & JR | INTELLECT project.
He walked with the silence of the sea breeze, born not into power, but into promise a prayer whispered in the pages of a Holy Quran, in a house by the waves.
A boy with a paper bag full of stars became the man who taught missiles to fly, but never forgot how to fold a paper plane.
Dr. Kalam never sought war but he built the wings to defend peace, when peace stood cornered by the storms of ambition and threat.
In the silence before the sirens, as borders burn with the weight of history, as satellites spin with dread, and headlines scream uncertainty, we remember him.
His dreams wore no crown only the scent of rockets, the burn of metal, and the fragrance of books. They called him the Missile Man, but he was more. He was a monk of science, a teacher of truth, a pilgrim of peace in a world that often forgot how to listen.
Today, missiles rest in hidden silos, drones hum across the clouds, and soldiers march toward uncertain dawns. But somewhere, his vision marches with them not in weapons, but in will. Not in fire, but in foresight.
He once said, “A nation without vision is a nation without future.” And now, as the world forgets the language of dialogue, India remembers the man who built her strength with humility and stitched her future with threads of science and soul.
Even as President, he carried his own bags, and a billion hopes on shoulders not shaped by power, but by purpose.
His laboratory was his temple, his heart an orbiting satellite of humility. He didn’t just ignite minds he liberated them.
Let the world watch. Let adversaries test. India does not seek destruction but make no mistake: she is ready. Because he made her ready.
And while he rests among the stars, where gravity cannot reach, his fire still fuels our courage, his dream still guards our sky, his wisdom still writes the silent code of every soldier’s heart, and falls softly into the hands of every child who dares to dream, who dares to imagine, and dares to become.
For every soul that seeks peace, for every hand that builds rather than destroys, Dr. Kalam’s legacy is a flame that will never fade it is the winged promise that guards not just India’s sky, but the sky of every nation that dares to rise in hope, in unity, in peace. – Author Haroon Rashid
Biography:
ABOUT AUTHOR HAROON RASHID
Haroon Rashid is an internationally celebrated Indian author, poet, and humanitarian whose soul-stirring words transcend borders, cultures, and languages. Revered as “a movement of thoughts” and “a soul that breathes through verses,” he is a global ambassador for peace, education, and sustainable development. Through literature, he fosters empathy, cultural harmony, and a collective vision for a better world.
KEY LEADERSHIP ROLES • Global Ambassador & International Member, Global Federation of Leadership & High Intelligence A.C. (Mexico) • SDG Ambassador (SDG4 & SDG13), World Literary Forum for Peace & Human Rights • National Vice Chairman, Youth India – Mother Teresa International Foundation • Peace Protagonist, International Peace Forums – Mexico & Greece • Honorary Founding Member, World CP Cavafy
AUTHOR & LITERARY CONTRIBUTIONS • We Fell Asleep in One World and Woke Up in Another – poetry book, translated by 2024 Nobel Peace Prize Laureate Eva Petropoulou Lianou • Author Haroon Rashid Quotes – A soul-deep treasury of reflections • Works translated into: Greek, French, Persian, Urdu, Arabic, Chinese, Tamil, Hindi, Sanskrit, German, Indonesian, Bolivian, and more.
GLOBAL HONORS & AWARDS • Diploma de Honor al Mérito – Mexico (2025) • World Art Day Honor – Indonesia (2025) • Friedrich von Schiller Award – Germany • 4th World Gogyoshi Award – Global Top Vote (2024) • 1st Prize – Silk Road International Poetry Exhibition (2023) • Golden Eagle Award – South America (2021 & 2023) • United Nations Karmaveer Chakra – 2023 & 2024 • REX Karmaveer Chakra – Silver & Bronze – India • Global Peace Award – Mother Teresa Foundation (2022) • Cesar Vallejo Award – UN Global Marketplace • Honorary Doctorate in Humanity – La Haye, France (2021) • Sir Richard Francis Burton Award – European Day of Languages • Prodigy Magazine USA Award – Literary Excellence • Certificates of Honor – Greece, Serbia, Indonesia, Mexico • Honorary Award for Literature & Arts – Trinidad & Tobago
GLOBAL PRESENCE & RECOGNITION • Invited Guest on The Oprah Winfrey Show • Featured in O, The Oprah Magazine • Speaker at: • International Peace Day – Mexico & Greece • 3rd International Congress of Education – Mexico • Paper Fibre Fest – Represented India in China, Greece, Mexico, Peru • UN SDG Conferences, Global Literary & Peace Forums • Work featured in education campaigns, peacebuilding initiatives, and cross-cultural literary dialogues • Admired by global celebrities, educators, artists, and policymakers
CULTURAL AMBASSADOR OF INDIA • Embodies India’s timeless storytelling, spiritual ethos, and peace traditions • Bridges Indian philosophy with global consciousness • Revered as an ethical thought leader, visionary poet, and global voice of unity
PHILOSOPHY & SOCIAL VISION
Literature, for Haroon, is a sacred space for: • Healing, empathy, and consciousness • Advocacy for: • Mental Health Awareness & Emotional Resilience • Climate Action & Sustainability • Spiritual Depth & Interfaith Harmony • Youth Leadership & Cultural Preservation
He aims to inspire changemakers, dreamers, and peacemakers across generations.
GLOBAL PRAISE & LOVE
Described as: “A movement of thoughts.” “A soul that breathes through verses.”
Celebrated across Europe, Asia, Africa, and the Americas, Haroon is loved for his: • Authenticity • Emotional depth • Literary brilliance Honored by governments, universities, and global literary councils.
TITLES & GLOBAL IDENTITY • Global Literary Icon • Award-Winning Author & Poet • International Peace Advocate • Global Educator of the Heart • Cultural Diplomat & Ethical Leader • SDG Voice for Education & Environment • Voice of Peace, Passion, and Purpose
QUOTE BY AUTHOR HAROON RASHID
“It’s our responsibility to create a better world for our future generations.”
CONNECT WITH HAROON RASHID Follow and engage across all platforms: @AuthorHaroonRashid
