Tomorrow will mark a year since I had my stroke. It's an occasion that, according to my daughter, Ginny, I should view as important. But I've spent enough time staring at death; I don't want to think ... [+]
He was reaching for the top shelf then stopped. He moved his eyes to the next, lower shelf down and chose a jar. His hair was sheet white and his body frame resembled my father, tall and heavy set. His shirt was tucked into his trousers. He wore his loose car coat, pressed pants and fawn colored bucks. The pandemic had just set in and I was afraid, like many others, wearing our makeshift masks, looking like old-fashioned bank robbers who needed to stop by the grocery store on their way to the bank.This elderly man near me was not wearing a mask. Was he made more vulnerable by choice or by just