After his heart attack, all foods tasted better. Strawberry juice tasted like sweet nectar. He did not raise his voice higher than a confident whisper; the same tone one would use to console a worried younger brother. He said it hurt when he laughed, then he showed us the stitches he had. They carved him open from his sternum to right below his esophagus. It looked like the surgeons used white shoelaces to keep his chest from spilling open. Then I wondered whether a bunny-ears knot kept the stitches from unraveling. He showed us that he had no stitches or scars on his back, but it looked as if a daddy-long-leg, with sewing needles for legs, hiked across the right side of his neck in his sleep. He walked at an infant's pace, but told us he was going to be okay. He told us he used to live, now he loves.