They die in the winter in Chicago. The cold takes them away. It sweeps in off the lake, and off they go. It has done for centuries now. Some of them died in the stockyards in Chicago. Or in backyards. Full of rusted jungle gyms and old stoves and snow. Some in overheated houses, out in the winter woods. Others in their dock blinds. Or in their leaking boats when they sank in one of the icy great lakes

It was in the winter – last winter – when I heard that my mother was dying. And so, I had to go. And I was kind of worried. So I talked to Father Pierre, who's a priest. A converted Egyptian Jew. A playboy who loves elegant things. And has a book collection of 30,000 books. And he's such a smart guy. And so I said "Listen. I have a really big problem. I'm going to see my mother. And she's dying. But I don't love her." And Father Pierre said "Okay, well, just bring her some flowers. And tell her you've always cared about her." And I thought 'I can do that.' Besides, you really don't want to lie to someone who's dying

But when I got there, they were rushing her around in a gurney. And I didn't have time to get the flowers, and it was loud and confusing and there wasn't a single moment to say "You know, I've always... cared about you." And then all of a sudden – she was dead