Por qué murió Thomas Duncan y otros sobrevivieron al ébola

It is truly heartbreaking and sad that the poor lad passed. My prayers go out to his family and friends during this difficult time.


Por Faith Karimi y Catherine E. Shoichet

(CNN) — Su familia está devastada. La mujer con la que pensaba casarse está pasmada por el “qué pasaría si”. Y muchos se preguntan por qué Thomas Eric Duncan murió cuando varios otros pacientes con ébola tratados en Estados Unidos sobrevivieron.

Duncan fue hospitalizado ocho días después de que llegó de Liberia, y más tarde dio positivo al ébola. Murió el miércoles, pero no se sabe mucho acerca de su historial médico.

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Meatball Memories



Meat. Flour. Fry. Meat. Flower. Fry. It was a process I knew how to do before I could spell my name. Probably the most comforting smell I can think of is the smell of my grandma’s (and my mum’s) meatballs. Dripping oil and deliciousness, with a promise of a rise in your blood pressure, they weren’t the healthiest things I ever ate but they were heaven on earth. Anytime I smell Haitian Meatballs It always brings me back to when I was in Elmentary school. After a hard day of times tables and long division I’d get home and I’d stand behind the door and I could smell the mouthwatering meatballs and I knew: everything is okay. Everything is perfect. That is the smell that gives me a feel of what it is like to be young, innocent and happy.   

goodbye, winter


goodbye winter
liam bee

a woman, herself a broken blue clapboard,
carved fishbones on my house.
the more i look at them,
scratches on the brick shoulder,
i see the impoverished elders
bent life right in thousands
of my favorite poems. one window cracked
but i believe it, the night i love,
grey a quarter cut of darkness.
the woman who lives in
every remembrance of maine winters
which have worn a burden in her center.
there is despair, hope; where
is there a cover? most places, so rolling
and remote. where is the safe place
to touch each others’ beauty?
she occupies both of my hands.
the brightest light does not dim.
i will soon be headed for a mission
forgotten; poorness breeds creative
solutions. most places, so rolling and
remote, but everywhere she touches.
her words now are mosquitoes calling.
that will be my legacy too.

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