My uncle, Loyd Short, is in the hospital. No one really expects him to leave it alive. Poor Loyd. He's had so many health problems through the years. Cancer. Back trouble. It's a long list. Each time everyone has expected him to die, and each time he's come out of it. But I don't think he will this time. His liver is failing. To make matters worse, Loyd is not one of the fortunate few that the doctors and the Government would be willing to try to save. In short, he's old and he's poor. He's one of the people they would have left behind to die in New Orleans during the flooding.

I'm not sure what I'm supposed to be feeling about the prospect of Loyd dying. There was a time in my life when I thought if Loyd as the closest thing to a father I had ever known. But in the last ten years or so some things have been done and said to change all that. I certainly don't wish Loyd any ill, but I would be false if I pretended I was as close to him as I once was. I'll miss Loyd when he's gone. I certainly wish he could have been one of those fortunate few that the Establishment gave a damn about.