He didn’t want to be in a hospital. He didn’t want to be in a rehab. But he’d lost a good amount of his blood through a bladder ailment and had to be injected daily with an antibiotic. So he said, “Get me out of this Day-Care!” He was in his eighties, my little brother, and his children did not know what to do with him.
Today my other brother, Sylvan, checked up on him, an arduous task. My little brother had been reconciled, in a way, to his role in Western Civilization. He had gotten up in the night and run an errand for one of his fellow detainees (gotten a glass of water?) though he could barely make it to the bathroom himself. He had admitted to himself that, though locked up in a “Day-Care,” he was a brother of Jesus Christ.