“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.
http://tendidonegro.blogspot.com/2009/08/intervencion-y-creacion-de-la-pared-de.html
ResponderBorrarpara enviar este comentario, la palabra de seguridad que tuve que escribir fue milindis.
nada. que milindis me dio mucha gracia.
un beso.