By Patrick Egan
Every other weekend, I drive the 55 miles between Brooklyn and Tinton Falls, N.J., where my father lives at an assisted living facility called Renaissance Gardens. Before I can give him a hug, see how he’s feeling and wheel him out to the car so we can go out for lunch and take care of his shopping, I pass the “Dearly Departed” table in the corridor leading to his room.
A frame sits on the table, displaying a face, sometimes smiling and sometimes not, along with a name, a room number and the date that person died. Almost always, the face has changed since my last visit. Read more
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