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Conversations with Strangers my sister was lying in a hospital bed waiting for a tumour to be cut from her liver. each day we would congregate around her bed and try to make sense of what was happening. each piece of information the doctors fed us became less palatable. and we stood there at her bedside swallowing everything they threw at us. and what got me through was not my family was not faith was not strength. what got me through was the midnight cab rides back home from the hospital. there is nothing that can rival the compassion one can find in strangers. each night a different driver would show up and ask the same question: do you work here? they would ask, and I would just let it all spill out like coffee from an upturned cup. my god, the horror of our situation! I explained the look on my motherís face when we said goodbye each day. how my father told me he would never recover if she didnít make it out alive. how the whole situation was getting out of hand. and then it would come. these poor bastards were full to bursting with all manner of tragedies and horror stories. each man had seen enough suffering to rival that of the Jews. and it would happen like this each night, as I looked out onto the streets through the smoke stained windows of my cab. I would tell my stories and they would tell theirs. a state of mutual catharsis was declared from the moment I flagged them down.
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