sábado, agosto 08, 2009

“Dad, I’m back.”

He looked so small and pale lying in that hospital bed. How had this happened? For the first sixty-seven years of his life, my father had been a large and dark man. Now he was just another pale, sick drone in a hallway of pale, sick drones. A hive, I thought. This place is like a beehive with colony-collapse disorder.

“Dad, it’s me.”

“I’m cold.”

“I have a blanket.”

As I draped it over my father and tucked it around his body, I felt the first sting of grief. I’d read the hospital literature about this moment. There would come a time when roles would reverse and the adult child would become the caretaker of the ill parent. The circle of life. Such poetic bullshit.

Sherman Alexie
Fragmento de War Dances en The New Yorker

1 comentario:

  1. http://tendidonegro.blogspot.com/2009/08/intervencion-y-creacion-de-la-pared-de.html

    para enviar este comentario, la palabra de seguridad que tuve que escribir fue milindis.

    nada. que milindis me dio mucha gracia.

    un beso.