The motility of mortality:

My parents love Greek food, which is apparently completely unavailable in Wisconsin so tonight we went to a Russian gyro house that one of my sister’s former ESL students owns. He wasn’t there but his brother was and we had hysterical conversations with him about the importance of tomatoes on a good gyro, the joys of vodka, and the universal bliss of good baklava. He also served a Turkish coffee that has wound my naturally curly hair six loops tighter. How long do I have with my parents? Ten years? How long do I have? Gather ye rosebuds kids.