Editor’s note: The original version of this article included the name of the artist, his wife and his friend. At the request of the family, their names have been removed.
It was an awkward goodbye.
The dying artist wanted to stay
in the restaurant and talk some more, finish his second glass of sweet
tea, but his wife knew better. Since he was sick, she knew he would
get tired soon. Better to leave earlier, while he was still talking and
energized, than later. She thanked me for coming and helped her husband
out of his seat – my cue to leave.
Instead I stood there with my
reporter’s notebook in hand, waiting for the scene that would tell me
my story, that would give me the answer to all the questions I had
about the artist and what he was going through as a dying man.
watched, silent, while his good friend opened the wheelchair. Read more