Life — and I don’t suppose I’m the first to make this comparison — is a disease: sexually transmitted, and invariably fatal.
Baba wet his hair and combed it back. I helped him into a clean white shirt and knotted his tie for him, noting the two inches of empty space between the collar button and Baba’s neck. I thought of all the empty spaces Baba would leave behind when he was gone, and I made myself think of something else.
