So it snowed last night. John and Marguerite got up very early. I arose, called the hospital at 6 AM and then was called by Ma at 7AM to find out about John my brother.
Went out, cleaned off car-three inches of snow, ice underneath and drove to the hospital. John was having therapy. He was writing on a small white board. "Who's that?" asked the chipper therapist. John wrote intently.
"My shit head sister," he inscribed on the board. (Which I bought for him.)
"What's her name?" asked the therapist.
"Nancy," he wrote.
I am impelled to contemplate the nature of kindness.
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