Friends for Life
It was one of those doctor visits. A new neurologist and I was spent from sharing the story of my son's 16 years. After two hours at UNC-Chapel Hill, I drove to Franklin Street. The last time we walked this street, a deliciousness wafted from the Italian Pizzeria that I would not pass up this time. I wheel D in and we are greeted by a handsome, young Italian. With the collar of his polo flipped up, he carries himself like a soccer player--former soccer player, that is. His black hair is receding--he's probably in his early 30s. "What's your name, young man?" he speaks to D with a thick, maybe Sicilian accent. D struggles to answer, but instead of answering for him as I often do, I wait. The man was speaking to him, not me. "D," he replies thickly. "DAVE!" was the Italian proprietor's exclamation. I was going to correct the name, but, as I said before, I was exhausted, and just managed a smile. He continued, "Dave? I&