He Is Dead-Alive
He has a miserable life, she said, and he has exposed his meanness to lots of others.
He sits in a large chair, with a pee cup by his side, angry and alone. The relatives do not visit.
He has not read a book since high school, he has learned nothing new, he has contributed nothing to society.
He is truly dead-alive, she said. Alive, but truly and completely one hundred percent dead inside, and to the world.
I sat and listened with my mouth agape, wondering that she could speak this way of her brother.
That is not all, she said. He weighs a jillion pounds, his home is smelly and terrible, completely foul,
Our own mother would have given up on him, and she did not ever give up on people.
He sits in gruesome-smelling diapers for days, there is a pile of them in the corner.
Which corner? I asked her.
How would I know? She asked. We have not spoken for fifty years.
Mesmerized, I wondered what he was saying about her.
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