“My older brother died of AIDS in 1990. He lived with me...

“My older brother died of AIDS in 1990. He lived with me during his last four years and I took care of him. It was hard for him because he was so proud. He wouldn’t let me wheel him outside because he didn’t want people to see him. He didn’t want to let me feed him. If he fell down, he wouldn’t call for me. He was like that even when we were kids. One time when he was ten years old, he fell on the street and cut his arm open on a piece of glass. He had to go to the hospital to get stitches, and I cried about it more than he did. But toward the end of his life, late at night, I’d hear him crying in the bathroom. The first time it happened I knocked on the door. But he wiped his eyes and acted like nothing was wrong. So after that I didn’t knock any more.”