My brother is dying. He has always been dying. But he never dies. He simply hangs on, breathing in and out, never getting better and never getting worse.
I remember when he was born. My father carried me into my mother’s hospital room, whispering in my ear. “Ernest,” he had said, “this is your little brother.”
I saw the pale, wrinkled thing in my mother’s arms, and at the age of five I knew what death looked like. My three-year-old sis...
Continue reading ...