The Stranger, May 28th, 2003
FOR THE PAST year or so, my father has been ill. I visited him in his hospital room this fall, with the skyscrapers of downtown brooding beyond his narrow bed, stood over him and looked at his legs, which had withered to where they reminded me of Jesus' on the cross, or Saint Jerome as the Renaissance painters represented him. Standing there I thought not about whether he would pull through this okay or not, or about who would do the family's taxes, or how I would comfort my mother later in the car; no, my thoughts were much more self-absorbed and immediate. Oh, I thought, so someday I too wil...
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