Chapter Twenty-FourKAM
Stepping out onto a creaky old porch, a man moves slowly with the aid of a twisted and polished wooden cane. He's very short, obviously shrunken with age, and has a back that's hunched just below the shoulders. A steady shake consumes his free hand. I watch my mom greet him with one of those awkward half hugs, half handshakes.
One would exercise the same greeting with an old lover that hasn't been seen in years, or even an estranged parent that didn't have much to do with their life. The notion brings me back to my father and the look of his dead face. If he were alive and I were greeting him right now, I would likely show the same awkward affection. It's hard to believe it has only been a few hours since I was hunched over a garbage throwing up at the morgue. It s
