My brother-in-law died from his cancer
at home on February twenty-fifth.
I hadn’t seen him since October last
when he still had some hair and could carry
on with conversation as if he was
not really sick. Even then, though, he had
confined himself to the sofa; he could
physically do little else and we
likely knew that it would never get better
than this. Last year we camped together in
April; in the cold, dismal, pouring rain, we
played dice games, cards, got drunk, and morbidly
counted up each and every pill he was on,
pretending, both of us, that we could be this strong.
michael jarmer 