Exactly what is it about placing ice-cold cloths on the withering foreheads of the aging that remind me of my frailty. Or, the frailty of life, I mean. We stood in the room with my father-in-law a couple of days ago, the room hot with the afternoon sun. A fan blew lukewarm air around the room. A bucket of ice water held the cloths that I kept on changing on his forehead. I kept on glancing at the man in the next bed, asleep, in a diaper, and missing part of one of his legs. He's going nowhere. I helped him dial a phone number one day. He just couldn't get it done. The lips try to move, but they are etched deeply with the creases of skin whose day is done. And the eyes. Oh, the eyes. You know, they tell all. Look deeply and you'll see a person whose life is nearing completion. The strength is simply gone. I cry easily in these kinds of situations. I reach out and touch him and tell him I'll see him again soon. And as he tells me he appreciates me and loves me, it happens again. Because I know he's telling the truth. I turn my head to go and, again, glance at the man with the diaper and no leg.