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I'm not dead. Not yet, at least. I don't see any dead people or tunnels of light, but my life is surely flickering away. Don't feel sorry for me, though. My long years have been blessed with many children, grandchildren, and all the joy that goes with them. God also blessed me with a wife that believes in love the absolute way that Mother Theresa believed in service to the poor. She takes care of me now. She just stepped out on an errand. We've never spent a day apart. My angel.
My arms and legs barely move. I'm skinny as a mail-post since my food never stays put. It either comes back up or shoots down out of me without control. My mind takes naps often, leaving my body to fend for itself like a headless stick man. That's why I've had to stay so long in this moco-colored room with that machine that's always beeping. I rarely speak. Otra vez, don't feel sorry for me. My life has lived itself out.
My door opens. She's back now. Her frail body. Her white hair. Her crooked smile. All beautiful.
"Are you up, Flaco?" she asks.
"Si, Flaca," I reply. "Fried chicken?"
"Of course I brought it," she answers.
"?Medicina?" I ask.
"Por supuesto, Flaco. Por …