“Very good,” he said. “Very good practice. The best practice.” “Practice? Practice for what?” “Dying,” he said, as if it were obvious. “Family love is the best practice for dying. For understanding that you are part of something big, not just your one separate body. This is why you are such a good man.” “My children are something more than mere practice for my own dying,” I said, just as the waitress made another pass.
