My brother was a stroke survivor. For the five years following his stroke, he never really let his challenges slow him down. He still was really active in his church. He never forgot anyone's birthday. At Thanksgiving, he begged for my mother's pumpkin pie. And jokes. He always had a bad joke to share.
My brother wasn't a saint. He made a lot of mistakes. He had diabetes and didn't manage it well. For a long time, he didn't take insulin because it was too expensive. Yet, he still had the money to buy cartons of cigarettes. It really was only a matter of time before his choices caught up to him.
I still can't believe he's gone. I half expect him to call me on my birthday and tell some horrible pun. At my parents' house, two framed pictures of my brother now hang on the wall, a constant reminder of him.
Saint Marty is a little melancholy this evening.
Mind-Swimming
by: Oliver de la Paz
A stroke is like that, according to Domingo. Pulling up on nets, he suddenly felt heavy. Close attention to things make them strange. He felt his leg disappear. He could smell ink from newspapers. He could hear the flint struck in a lighter miles away. And like that quick strike of a flame, Domingo fell to the deck of the boat, watching the horizon before him open like the widening pupil of an eye.
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| He was a flawed, good guy |
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