So Many Potential Favorites, So Little Time

The New Yorkers are stacking up in the house. A few on the kitchen table, more on the end table, another little pile on the coffee table, some more in my office room, all waiting for me to read the interesting articles before they go in the the recycling bin. Articles in recent issues seem oddly self-important, as if the writers are trying to prove how clever they are. Ah, we are soooo cool, we are in the New Yorker. During the search for gems on obscure topics, I check the date on the cover. Before my Dad died, or after. Before the coma, or after. The time warp of days during the two months between surgery, coma and days of clueless doctors and tests, then awake but never really Dad. And finally no more hope. Last October to December.