cannot do things he was used to doing. For instance, he cannot carry even small loads of clothes. He sleeps all day.

In addition to these outward signs, there are emotional strains on him, his wife, and me. Leo knows his days are limited; the doctors told him maybe a year. I don’t know how he lives with such information, but I do know it pains me to hear, "John, you know…I don’t know if it is worth it. This kemo knocks me out, and it isn’t helping." These words come from the one man in my life who always had the answer. Like a father, but a friend. That is not to say my father wasn't there, but we both learned from and respected Leo. He was a father to both of us. I cannot describe the pain which rolls though my body when I see his face say, "John, you know…I’ve never been in so much pain." I also know he is worried about his wife, as am I. When my uncle died, my aunt died within six months, and many of us believe that was due to an attachment between the two. She couldn’t live without him. Under the same reasoning, Mrs. Rubin will die approximately two hours after Leo.

Now the waiting begins. I run the store now, whether they are there or not. I don’t’ know what they do when I am not there. Watching Leo wither away is the most painful experience I have ever been through. And I use "painful" for lack of a more descriptive word. That is the closest thing I can think of. The one thing in my life I knew to be stable, is no longer. The advice is interrupted by complaints and bathroom breaks. The instruction is from a chair, not by example.

Leo has employed countless high school students in fifty years. Many have come back to visit. Many have brought their children to meet Leo. The Leo they knew is gone. None of them worked while in college. None of them saw what I have seen.

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