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Death
Fritz’s Heart
They want to make all pain go away, but that is impossible. Pain is like the sand in an hourglass: a certain amount must sift through your soul before your life is over.
March 1999Stepguy
When the old man came up to the bathroom to shave, I crept down to the kitchen for some breakfast. I listened hard for him as I poured those Shreddies, spilling the sugar and quickly tidying up to hide the evidence.
March 1999Japanese Food
My friend Howard doesn’t want me to know that he’s dying. He hates all the movies and books and plays about AIDS, especially what happens at the end. He says they turn something real into a sappy, pointless melodrama. But that’s not why he hasn’t told me.
March 1999The Cave
I’d discovered my hideout a few months before, when I chased a hare behind a mulberry bush at the foot of a large mound, about the size of a wheat pile at threshing time. Following the hare’s trail, I found a small hole in the rock, completely hidden from view by the bush.
February 1999In The Name Of Compassion
A Lawyer Fights Assisted Suicide — An Interview With Wesley J. Smith
A proponent of assisted suicide could be Moses, and it wouldn’t make assisted suicide right. That said, I think the motives of those promoting this agenda are mixed. I think there is a difference between the true believers in assisted suicide, who view it in an almost quasi-religious way, and people who support it because they believe it is the compassionate thing to do. The latter are merely misguided, in my opinion.
February 1999Blind Spots
A portable electronic keyboard, a tumor, a charge of solicitation
February 1999A Finger On The Page
Everyone washes too much in this country. They wash their babies too much, as well. The babies don’t smell of milk and waste but perfume and powder. At the day-care center where I work, some parents back away from me because I smell like a real person.
February 1999Memorial Day
I was impatient / as you selected / the flowers / one at a time / for the bouquets: / the peonies, pinks, / and coral bells / you had grown.
January 1999Personal, political, provocative writing delivered to your doorstep every month—without a single ad.
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