Lighted Windows
September 17,2005
Years ago I had a friend who was a Bulgarian artist. He operated a small gallery in the city but he lived with his mother in a small Bulgarian community in the suburbs. At night we would drink together and afterward I would drive him home.
On the way to his house we passed a hospital. There were invariably lights on in a handful of windows. He said, "Those are the rooms where people are dying." When my own father lay dying I remembered that. I looked out the window at the passing traffic and saw myself looking up at me waiting for my father to die.Whenever thereafter I went by hospitals at night I'd say a little prayer for the people waiting behind those lighted windows.
Years ago I had a friend who was a Bulgarian artist. He operated a small gallery in the city but he lived with his mother in a small Bulgarian community in the suburbs. At night we would drink together and afterward I would drive him home.
On the way to his house we passed a hospital. There were invariably lights on in a handful of windows. He said, "Those are the rooms where people are dying." When my own father lay dying I remembered that. I looked out the window at the passing traffic and saw myself looking up at me waiting for my father to die.Whenever thereafter I went by hospitals at night I'd say a little prayer for the people waiting behind those lighted windows.
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