T hough I had known him for over forty years, I never really knew him. He was dying now in the hospice wing of the nursing home. A nurse sat at a desk by his side taking notes.
She looked up from her clipboard, glanced at the clock, then down again at the clipboard. Writing, sighing, nodding her head.
J erry was my father-in-law. I first met him in when Michael and I started dating. Michael was in twelfth grade. I was in eleventh. The war in Vietnam was raging. Sex was out of the closet now that people popped the pill.
My parents were a Jewish stereotype. Though my future in-laws were just a few years younger, they seemed part of another generation. They tried hard to act cool.
Zoe dressed like Nancy Sinatra: hot pants and go-go boots. Jerry pierced an ear and grew a beard. S even years later, Michael and I had married, finished school out-of-state, and moved back home to Miami. The rare times they vacationed they went separately. Jerry had changed jobs three times. We lived a few blocks from our families. First our son Jonathan was born. Then our daughter Rachel. But in , things fell apart in rapid progression.
