I am unable to forget the words my stepfather Hank spoke to me. We were sitting outside in the wrought-iron chairs. The day was steamy, and the bugs were biting, but neither of us could get up and go inside to the air conditioning, because he had brought up his leukemia, and once a conversation like that is started, there’s no moving it to a better location. He sat with his hands on his thighs and looked at the fresh-cut grass.
“When I die,” Hank said, “you will probably go insane.”
I looked down at the grass to see what he saw. Such comforting stuff, grass: steady and sure and soft underfoot.
