He’d hide from his father at his cousin’s house. Years later, she still recalls the volcano of stubs 
in the ashtray.

Now his voice is burned by years of smoke, dry as dying cicadas at the end of an incinerating 
summer. Sitting at the foot of his bed, I can barely hear him over the scratching of wings in his 
throat.

Outside his window, flowers eke a life among weeds. On the golf channel, a malignant lawn 
unfolds under the arc of a tumor-sized ball. I pretend to watch TV, but secretly regard his 
flawless feet, each toe a sutra.

His face the color of ashes. Around him, a swell of ghostly smoke. Forecasts predict wind. I 
don’t care what blows in my eyes anymore.

Death demands that we watch in silence: He nods off. He comes to, only to go under again. We 
are fed up with what death wants.

Remember the time he came late to his twenty-fifth-anniversary party? Where was he hiding 
then? Finally, he walked in, cigarette glowing, smoke billowing around his head. We set out the 
ashtray.

When we leave, he says, See you again. The nurse comes in, and he asks her for a date. Their 
cackles follow us out the door. What do we know about endings anyway?