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  • There are a lot more tomorrows, after we get through the next few Todays.

    We waited for hours while big medicine worked.

    I walked along the promenade, in the rain with two of my brothers.
    “Don’t stare,” I said, “There is a couple having sex under that tree.”
    We all stared.
    It was raw and animal and raunchy and primal.
    They were not attractive humans but they were attracted to each other.
    Life is not always unfair.

    Later we were allowed in briefly to see our Father.
    The arsenal of care beeped and hummed and graphs floated along screens and tubes expanded and contracted.
    He had become a robot, more machine than man.

    After dinner, an early dinner, we returned.
    Only one person was allowed in, our Mother.
    I sat with two of my brothers and we felt like children again, not allowed to be with our parents.
    It got late, and we were sleepy.
    I remembered our Mother tucking us in as children.
    “I remember her singing to me, and rubbing my back.” I said.
    She always read to us.

    When my Mother finally came out she reported that our Father was thirsty but the nurse would not allow him to drink until he had drained all the fluid from surgery.
    “They have all the pretty and sweet nurses upstairs,” she said. “The ones down here are really tough.”
    Down there, among the walls of machines and the nurses who watch over the transition back from death, she held his hand.
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