On the Death of My Brother →
As the years went by, I developed a vision for my brother’s old age-not that he was going to get better-I knew that was not going to come to pass. Rather, I always hoped that he would get old enough that it wouldn’t matter. I had a fantasy that the symptoms would subside somewhat and that by the time we were in our 70s we would just be two grumpy old Jewish guys on a bench in Golden Gate Park or out in the avenues. I imagined that when we got that old the differences in our lives and what we did as adults would matter less. We would talk about my kids, baseball and the shared childhood that neither of us could ever figure out, but that I was able to leave behind.