Our father in the nursing home, hallowed be his name. Whose persistence on earth is explained only by his inward aspirations. Such thoughts we cannot know.

We cannot begin to approach him. It is impossible to think of him clearly. He exists without us and beyond us. He cannot be touched or defined. We can speak to him only in our dreams or by telephone.

Let us forget any idea we have of him dressed in pajamas, lying in bed. Instead we will think of him standing naked on a hill.

He is standing naked on a hill. He looks down at the city where we live. His skin hangs in small folds off his bones.

He cannot be disturbed, he is concentrating now. He lifts his arms up slowly from his sides.