An iStoryby Mike Miner
His face sags, the once square jaw rounded, a collapsing tent, a sail with no wind. Since the stroke, his mouth is stuck in a half grin. He’s in his office, surrounded by law books, looking at cases he argued or presided over. A lawyer, senator, judge; laws are what he lives for. His left eye squints involuntarily. The other swims, confused. “What time is it?” he asks.
We look at his watch. Nothing fancy; simple, gold. I’ve never seen him late. Never unshaven, unshowered, unbuttoned, untied—until today.