My son died of complications from diabetes. My father was a member of the Ku Klux Klan. I used to try on his robes. They felt heavy on me. Like I was wearing rain. I fought in Vietnam. I was addicted to cocaine. “May we say ‘I’ in our research essays?” inquires the nurse back in the classroom for a refresher course, the man laid off by Conrail, as if they’re in grade school again and have to ask, “May I go to the bathroom?” “May I get a drink of water?” I have a son who’s very ill. Even his father doesn’t know he’s HIV positive. I have a brother who’s schizophrenic. When we first found out my parents insisted I tell everyone that he was away at boarding school. I have ADHD. I am bulimic. I am a cross-dresser. The nakedness of the first person. Brave foolish I. No wonder you want to throw a cloak over it, lead it to the side, say what you can to comfort it.