Frank is Emptiness

March 30th, 2025

I woke up tired this morning, like I do most mornings. Some of the fatigue is simply due to me getting older. Some of it is due to being a fulltime caregiver for a four-year-old boy. Raising our grandson, Asher, can be exhausting. In any case, I was dragging when I got up, and caffeine was of no help to me. Sometimes, coffee is a stimulant. Sometimes, it’s just a diuretic.

I would have liked to just slouch through the day, but seeing it was a Sunday, my wife and I needed to go with Asher to church. Taking Asher to Mass can be fraught with peril. Generally, he is well-behaved, at least for a four-year-old he is. Asher is well liked at church. The congregants all know him by name, and they are fond of him. However, there are times when Asher is moody and restless. He can be loud and demanding. He will often just leave the pew and wander about the church. Nobody seems to mind him doing that, but either Karin or I have to be vigilant. He’s been known to splash around in the baptismal font.

In addition to being responsible for the surveillance of Asher, I also needed to perform the duties of a eucharistic minister. To give a brief explanation, I have to mention that part of the liturgy, actually the most important part of the service, is when the priest transforms bread and wine into the Body and Blood of Christ. The wafers of unleavened bread and the wine are still physically the same after the transformation. However, Catholics (and some other Christian denominations) believe that these things are profoundly changed. The priest, and sometimes a deacon, give the communion to the assembled congregants. Eucharistic ministers assist them with the distribution of communion. That’s what I was going to do.

Distributing communion is not a difficult task. All I was required to do is stand before of a long line of worshipers, hold up a wafer, and say, “The Body of Christ”. Then I would hand the wafer to the person in front of me, who would then promptly place it in his or her mouth. It can be like a religious assembly line. I expected that it would be that way for me.

It wasn’t.

As the first-person stepped-up to me, I held up the host, looked the individual in the eye, and said, “The Body of Christ”. As soon as I spoke, I felt something akin to an electrical shock running through my body. I stood there stunned because I was suddenly aware that the person receiving the communion was also the Body of Christ. And so was I. And so was the priest. And so was my Muslim friend who is celebrating Eid al-Fitr today. And so is my elderly Jewish friend who wants me to take him to a synagogue.

So is everybody and everything.

Then Asher yelled at me, “I don’t want you doing that!”

He gave no reason why he didn’t want to hand out communion, but Asher was adamant that I should stop. Asher came up to and gave me a shove. Karin got up from the pew and dragged him back there. Asher was inconsolable at that point. He wanted me to be with him. He almost always wants me to be with him.

I snapped out of my reverie and continued to distribute the hosts. I still had the same feeling as before what it wasn’t as intense. I wanted to cry.

When I had finished my work, I went back to the pew and picked up Asher. He wanted me to hold him. He sniffled and said, “I didn’t want you to do that.”

I whispered to him, “I don’t have to do it anymore.”

I sat down with Asher in arms. His head was resting on my right shoulder. I thought for a while. “Asher” means “Happy” in Hebrew. The name fits him. He usually is happy. In some mysterious way Asher is connected with the Jewish tradition along with being a baptized Catholic.

I started saying a Hebrew prayer to myself as he clung to me.

“Barukh atah Adonai Eloheinu, me’lech ha’olam…

“Blessed be the Lord our God, King of the Universe…”

That’s all I know of the prayer. It was enough.

March 28th, 2025

I took Asher to visit the old man and his wife. The term “old man” is relative. Many people would consider me to be an old man, but the person we went to see is old enough to be my father. I think he is 91 years old now. He is in excellent shape. His mind is sharp and his body functions pretty well. I would be thrilled to be as spry as he is when I get that old, if I get that old.

I know the man and his wife from our old synagogue. We don’t go there anymore because the shul is no longer in existence. For years, the population of the synagogue declined until there weren’t enough men to form a minyan (a minyan is ten adult Jewish males). I hadn’t seen this couple for almost three months, not since the synagogue closed its doors. The congregation dispersed, and now we are spiritually homeless. It takes time to find a new place to pray.

The old man and his wife are immigrants from Ukraine. They left there when the Soviet Union imploded. The old guy grew up in Stalinist Russia. When he was a boy, not much older than Asher, he and his grandfather had to flee to Kazakhstan to avoid the Nazi invasion. Both of his parents were officers in the Soviet Army during WWII. His family suffered intense antisemitism in Ukraine, despite the fact that his mother and father fought for their country. His son was also an officer in the Soviet Army. The son fought in Afghanistan and was severely wounded. The old man and his wife buried their boy two years ago. I was there at the funeral.

The old man and his wife love Asher dearly. What’s there not to love? Asher is an amiable four-year-old. He’s smart and articulate. The elderly couple has been asking me to bring Asher for a visit for months. We finally got around to it yesterday.

The old man thinks Asher is a nice Jewish boy. My grandson does have a Hebrew name. The old guy is convinced I’m Jewish. In his mind, if I am his friend, I have to be. I love the man, so at least for him, I am Jewish.

The couple live in an apartment complex in downtown Milwaukee. The old man greeted us at the door and led us to their tiny home. It’s a bit cluttered, but then so is my house. A person accumulates many things during the course of a long life. Most of the articles scattered around the apartment were memory aids. On the bookcase is a black and white photo of their son in his Soviet Army uniform. There is a small Israeli flag. Near the television is a glass paperweight engraved with the Star of David, the image of a Torah scroll, and a menorah. The small table is littered with mail and other documents. Books in Russian and Ukrainian line a shelf. Bottles filled with prescription meds are laying around in seemingly random locations.

The old man sat down on the couch and started talking with Asher. He spoke with a strong Slavic accent. I took off Asher’s coat and told him to show the man his new sweater. The man asked him,

“Who made for you this nice sweater?”

Asher smiled and answered, “Oma made it.”

“Oma? She has a knitting machine? Yes?”

I replied, “No, my wife, Karin, did it all by hand.”

The old guy exclaimed, “All by hand? It is wonderful. It must have taken a long time.”

Asher told him proudly, “It’s got elephants on it.”

The man laughed. “It does!”

His wife prepared something for us to eat. She brought out a box of small donuts for Asher. Her hands shook as she placed them on the table after shoving the papers aside. He took one and started to eat it. She went back into the kitchenette and pulled a bottle of apple juice from the refrigerator. She had to ask her husband to open it. Her hands and wrists are weak. She painstakingly poured the juice into a cup and gave it to Asher. I told him to be careful not to spill it. He held the cup with both hands as he sipped the juice.

I sat and talked with the old man. His wife came out with homemade bread and cheese. She cut an avocado in half for us. She gave Asher a large bowl of strawberries. He ate as many as he could. She did not talk very much to us. Even after thirty years, her English is not the best. She struggles to find the right words.

The man asked Asher to recite the alphabet. Asher got as far as “E” and then lost track of the letters. The old guy asked Asher if he would like a small toy car. Asher said he would. Then the man asked him what kind. Asher told him he wanted a monster truck. That confused the man. Finally, Asher told him he would like a dump truck. The old man nodded and smiled at the boy.

The woman brought out glasses for coffee. The glasses contained steaming hot water, and she gave us instant coffee to mix with it. The old man poured condensed milk and sugar into his coffee. I drank mine black.

Asher got bored.

He told me, “I want to go home.”

I told him, “We’ll go when I finish my coffee.”

Asher leaned up against me and snuggled.

“But I want to go now.”

‘Wait for me, or I will tell Oma not to let you watch a movie.”

Asher gave me a despairing look and said,

“Nooooo…”

“Yes. Just wait. It won’t take long.”

The old man asked me,

“Have you found a new synagogue?”

“No. Not yet. Ken goes to WITS, but they start the service too early for me to get there on time.”

He replied, “WITS? Wisconsin Institute for Torah Study? I don’t like them too much. They are black hats. Too strict. I want a normal Orthodox shul. I am thinking about going to Chabad. Lubavitch. It is only three blocks from the bus stop.”

I told him, “Let me know if you go. I don’t want to go to a new place alone. I can give you both a ride there.”

He nodded.

Asher got impatient and whiny. I finished my coffee and helped Asher put on his coat. I told him,

“Give them a hug, or maybe a handshake.”

He shook both their hands. They smiled at him.

The old man told me as we walked toward the door,

“I will tell you when I want to go to a new shul. I do not want to go to a new synagogue without you.”

We hugged. Asher waved to them as we left the apartment.

March 23rd, 2025

“And there’s always retrospect
(when you’re looking back)
To light a clearer path
Every five years or so I look back on my life
And I have a good laugh
You start at the top
(start at the top)
Go full circle round
Catch a breeze
Take a spill
But ending up where I started again
Makes me wanna stand still” – from the song Watershed by the Indigo Girls

I had lunch on Wednesday with a good friend, and then I did the same thing with another friend on Friday. In between, on Thursday, I turned sixty-seven years old. I spent both lunches talking about getting old. For some reason that was on my mind.

Both of my friends are older than I am. They have more experience and wisdom. One of them is eighty-three. I mentioned to him that he can’t even see sixty-seven in his review mirror anymore. I talked to my friends about looking back on my life and thinking about stupid things that I had done. They both said that was basically a waste of time, a true rabbit hole There is no point of reviewing old mistakes because all of that is in the past and there isn’t a damn thing that can be done about any of it.

This is of course true. Pondering the past only has value if lessons can be learned that have an impact on the present. The present is all there is: no past, no future, only now. For all three of us, the now is packed solid with responsibilities. There really isn’t time to ruminate on things that might have been. Reminiscing is like a hobby. It’s an activity for people who have time on their hands. My friends and I don’t have that luxury. Our present lives have a full schedule.

My two friends spend a great deal of their time caring for sick spouses. I spend my days (and often my nights) watching over a four-year-old boy. All three of us have a mission to perform. We each have our reasons to get up in the morning and we know that others depend on us. Our lives are sometimes difficult, but we all have a clear purpose. That makes all the difference.

When we meet, we bitch about our struggles, but we wouldn’t think of abandoning our loved ones in their need. We are blessed in an odd way. We know what needs to be done, and we do it. The people I pity are those who seem lost and bored with life. They don’t want to commit to anything or get involved. They exist, but they don’t really live.

Every day we are up on the watershed.

“Up on the watershed
Standing at the fork in the road
You can stand there and agonize
Till your agony’s your heaviest load

You’ll never fly as the crow flies
Get used to a country mile
When you’re learning to face
The path at your pace
Every choice is worth your while” – from Watershed

March 25th, 2025

I took my grandson, Asher, to his therapist this morning. I do that every Tuesday. He’s an active and talkative four-year-old whose been through a great deal of trauma in his young life. The therapy seems to be helping him. His sessions last for an hour. I wander around for a while until he gets done. This time I needed to talk to the doctor in charge of the clinic after Asher’s time with the therapist was over. The doctor had to make sure that the credit card I used for a copay went through the system. She wasn’t in the office when I dropped Asher off, so I waited for her to arrive when his session was done.

I didn’t have to wait long. She breezed through the door and into the reception area right after Asher finished his therapy. Dr. A was smiling and she held a bouquet in her hands. She looked at me and said,

“These are for you.”

All I could think to say was, “Oh”, as she handed me the bouquet.

Still smiling, she told me that she and the office manager had wanted to give me something to show how much they appreciated how I cared for Asher. She quipped,

“Men don’t usually get flowers, but we thought they would be okay.”

I replied, ” I have never gotten flowers before in my life.

The office manager, Eli, chuckled. Dr. A went into her office to check on the status of my payment. The therapist took Asher into her room to play until the doctor was finished doing whatever she needed to do. Eli looked at me and said,

“Dr. A and I talked about it. We wanted to get you something to recognize the good job you are doing with Asher.”

I told him, “I’m just doing what needs to be done.”

Elic nodded and smiled. He said,

” I know. It’s organic with you. It’s like second nature. That’s what makes it so amazing. You know what a man should do, and you do it. Not every man does what you do. Some gentlemen leave it to somebody else to do. You step up.”

Dr. A came out to tell me the payment went through with no problem. I went to the therapist’s room to gather up Asher. He looked at the bouquet and said,

“I don’t like those flowers! Don’t take them home!”

I convinced the boy that I should keep them. Actually, I bribed Asher.

When we got home, my wife put them into a vase. Asher didn’t like that either.

March 25th, 2025

The following letter from me was published by The Capital Times of Madison, Wisconsin, yesterday. See below.

“I can understand why ICE wants to deport violent criminals and gang members. I can even understand the rationale for members of the Trump administration wanting to expel other undocumented people. But why are they starting to deport individuals with green cards and valid visas? I think they are doing this to prove that they can. They want to show that the rules have changed, and no one is safe. Trump’s goal is to frighten people, and he is succeeding. I know I’m scared.”

March 24th, 2025

I had lunch yesterday with a young man who works in the construction industry. I asked him,

“Is work slowing down?”

“Yes.”

I asked him why people were getting laid off. He replied that big projects, one of which was supposed to start any day now, were being postponed or cancelled. His take was that this slowdown is due to Trump’s tariffs, especially those on steel. Builders, especially major players, don’t know where to get what they need. They could still purchase steel from overseas manufacturers, but it would cost them significantly more to do so. They may not be able to get the particular product they want from American companies. Also, the builders and those corporations who employ them have no idea if these tariffs are going to stick. Trump’s track record has been confusing and chaotic, so these projects are on hold until there is some stability. There might not ever be any.

The young man commends of the ultimate goal of the tariffs, that being the return of manufacturing to the United States. However, it has taken decades, especially since NAFTA was approved, for American companies to offshore production. It will take years to bring manufacturing back, if it even can come back. In the meantime, supplies chains are being broken and in some cases construction grinds to a halt.

When April 2nd rolls around, and Trump’s next wave of tariffs take effect, other industries will be impacted. An economy that up until now has been running smoothly, will stumble. Consumers, like corporations, will have to pay more or reluctantly switch over to alternative products. People will feel uneasy and buy less. I know that I will buy less.

Do you see a trend here?

March 15th, 2025

“The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.” – Franklin Delano Roosevelt

“I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past, I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.” – the Litany Against Fear from Dune by Frank Herbert

I am afraid. I worry about many things. As the legal guardian for our four-year-old grandson, Asher, I fear that he might lose his government health insurance if Congress and President Trump gut Medicaid. I wonder what is going to happen to Social Security and Medicare. My wife and I depend on both of those programs. The state of the economy frightens me as tariffs and other forces introduce chaos into the system. I won’t even start talking about foreign affairs. This essay would be far too long if I did.

I am certain that I am not the only American who is anxious about the present situation, much less the future. If the polls are at all accurate, then millions of other people in our country share my concerns. Many of them live in far more desperate conditions than I do. There may be changes coming that qualify as existential threats for a lot of folks.

So, what do we do?

The Serenity Prayer states:

“God grant me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot change;
courage to change the things I can;
and wisdom to know the difference.”

There is wisdom in that prayer regardless of whether a person believes in God or not. There are some things in life that I cannot change, and I just have to roll with them. There are other things, in my personal life or in my community, that are possible for me to influence. Fear is not inherently bad. The point is not to let fear paralyze me. That is why Frank Herbert describes fear as “the mind-killer”. Fear is a universal emotion and a necessary warning to humans that there is danger. There is a choice in what I do with this emotion.

I know a brave young man who climbs up on tall buildings nearly every day to weld structural steel. People tell me that he is fearless. That is incorrect. He is often frightened, and that is as it should be, because the danger he faces is real. However, he allows the fear to pass over him and through him, as it says in the Litany. His fear forces him to be careful in his work. He exercises caution, but he still gets the job done. He completes the mission.

We are surrounded by voices telling us to be afraid. Social media encourages that. The fact is that fear sells. Politicians know that, and the worst of them manipulate us through our anxieties. It is exceedingly rare for someone in politics to inspire confidence in us. Most of them prefer to be predators.

Am I saying that everything will be okay? I tell Asher that, but I am not saying it in this article. We face dangers that are real. Some bad things can happen and will happen.

So, once again, what do we do?

We need to trust in ourselves. We need to trust others. That means we have to take risks. We may not be required to climb up 44 stories to work on a new high rise, but we need to listen to our fears and then act upon them.

March 13th, 2025

It was an interesting day. My wife, Karin, was sick, so I took charge of our grandson, Asher, for most of the day, from the time he woke up until midafternoon. Asher is four years old. He’s a feisty lad. The boy is full of energy and eager to do things. That’s healthy, but it is also exhausting for an old man like me. I took Asher out for breakfast at a 1950’s-style diner. He consumed scrambled eggs, sausages, and pancakes. Asher is adept with a knife and fork. After that, we spent well over an hour at the local library. Asher spent most of the time playing interactive games on a huge touch screen. We did actually read a book while there. Then we went to a playground.

It was a warm spring morning, so we went to Kayla’s Place, a large playground that attracts dozens of children on a good day. I expected to spend an hour there with Asher. The visit lasted far longer than that. Why?

Asher found a girl.

From what I’ve seen, Asher does not actively look for a girl to play with. He just finds them, or sometimes they find him. That’s his karma. In this particular case, Asher noticed a young lady wearing a lavender shirt with sparkly stars on the front of it. She was carrying a stuffed animal: Rocky from Paw Patrol. Asher just happens to have the same stuffed animal at home, so he casually mentioned this fact to the little girl. He gave her his patented smile with the prominent dimple on his right cheek. After that, they became inseparable.

The girl’s caregiver, who I assume was her grandfather, was there to watch over her, just like I was observing Asher. I tried to strike up a conversation with the man, but he would have none of it. There was no sign of solidarity from him. I don’t know why. In any case, he was continually busy advising his young protege. The guy had a nearly constant monologue going:

“Okay, Sweetie, give the other children some space. That’s good. Thank you. Now, don’t be bossy. That’s better. Thank you. Watch out for the little person next to you. That’s good, Pumpkin. Thank you.”

This went on and on and on. I don’t hover over Asher like that. I watch him, but I let him do his thing unless it somehow seems unsafe. Actually, when Asher and I are together, he generally does most of the talking. He has a lot to say.

Asher and the lavender girl wandered all through the playground. They went down the slide together. She pushed Asher on the swing, with her caregiver providing a great deal of unsolicited advice to her. Then Asher pushed her on the swing. They crawled through a tunnel that looked like a big caterpillar. They both fell over inside it and laid next each other laughing. At one point, after riding on top of a couple giant frogs that rested on large springs, Asher came up to her and stood in front of her grinning. The girl asked him,

“Why are you standing so close to me?”

That was an innocent question, but it was one that she probably won’t need to ask ten years from now. She will know why.

They were playing on some parallel bars. Asher fell off and she helped him to get back up. Then she took his arm, and they walked hand in hand around the playground.

I thought to myself, “They sure aren’t wasting any time.”

The girl’s grandfather watched with some concern. I glanced at him and said,

“Wait until they’re teenagers.”

He did not respond to that. however, he suggested to the little girl that she play with other kids. She gave him a cold stare that said, “I’m busy here. Do you mind?”

After a while, the girl asked her caregiver for a snack. He pulled out a bag of arrowroot biscuits. Who buys arrowroot biscuits, and why would they do so? They were basically cookies, and the girl offered Asher one. He ate several. I am sure the grandfather assumed that I was starving Asher.

The girl convinced Asher that they should play a game where each of them was a Paw Patrol characters. Asher seemed uninterested, but the girl was adamant. She told Asher to chase her. He did.

After several laps around the playground, she wore his ass out. She kept running but he slowed to a walk. I guess he should get used to this sort of thing. He will no doubt be chasing some other girl in the future.

Asher came up to me and took my hand. I asked him,

“What do you want?”

He replied, “I want to go home.”

He started for the exit, completely ignoring the little girl.

I told him, “Say goodbye.”

The girl was sobbing, and her caregiver was unsuccessfully trying to console her. Asher waved to her and said, “Bye!”

No response from the girl. Apparently, he left her brokenhearted.

I never thought all of this would start so soon.

March 8th, 2025

A few days ago, Karin and I took our four-year-old grandson, Asher, to an orientation at the Tamarack Waldorf School on Milwaukee’s eastside. We plan on enrolling the boy into one of the kindergarten classes at the school for the fall semester. Karin and I are familiar with the school. Two of our children went there. Our youngest son was at Tamarack for kindergarten twenty-five years ago. My feelings about being there again are conflicted. It seems so strange to be starting this cycle again.

It would probably be helpful if I tried to explain what a Waldorf School is. People have written entire books describing Waldorf education, so I will give a very stripped-down version of what it is all about. Waldorf schools have a curriculum that is holistic in that each subject has some connection with every other one. Every grade level has a theme to it. The underlying assumption is that the development of an individual child resembles the course of all humanity history in microcosm. Each boy and girl reenact the journey of all mankind. I find that to be a remarkable idea, and it implies that every child is intrinsically of value.

The kindergarten is the start of the journey, and beginnings are important. There is an obsession in our culture to treat students as commodities. Schools, be they public or private, tend to groom children to become industrious worker bees, ambitious cogs in the corporate machine. They are told to be winners, whatever that means. I have had people encourage me to start teaching Asher how to read now. They tell me that he needs to get ahead, or at least not fall behind the kids in his age group. The Waldorf school will not push Asher or his classmates to be competitive this soon in life. They will learn how to socialize, how to draw, how to sing, and how use their imaginations while playing. In short, Asher will get a chance to be who he is, and right now he is just a little boy.

Asher got to spend an hour with other children in the kindergarten classroom while the adult caregivers talked in the room next door. The school building is old. It has to be a century old if not more. The windows are tall. The floors are all hardwood. Nearly everything in the classroom is made of natural materials. There are many things fashioned from wood or ceramics or cloth. Each kindergarten room has a loft that the kids can use as the tower of a castle or the bow of a pirate ship. Everything that exists in the classroom is there to stimulate a sense of wonder in the child. There was one plaything in particular that caught my fancy. It looked a bit like a model of a tree. There was a vertical wooden shaft with metal leaves surrounding it in a spiral pattern. The leaves on the top of the tree trunk were small and they increased in size as they got close to the base. Asher dropped a wooden ball from the top of the tree. The marble rolled and followed the spiral of metal leaves, and the ball struck a musical note upon bouncing off of each leaf. Each consecutive leaf rang a lower note as the ball descended. It sounded like somebody was playing a scale on a xylophone. Asher was delighted with the toy. So was I. The room had other objects just as fascinating.

While Asher was playing with his potential classmates, Karin and I sat with other adults to listen to a kindergarten teacher describe the class activities. Asher will play outside everyday regardless of the weather. He will go each day to a nearby park. He will listen to his teacher tell him stories. He will draw or paint or sculpt with beeswax. He will play games with the other kids. He will make friends. He will share snacks with them. He will become more human.

I felt sad. I wasn’t feeling that way because of Asher. I’m excited for him, perhaps even more excited than he is. I felt sad because our own children went to this school, and they still suffered mightily when they became adults. They have experienced enormous trauma in the years since they were Asher’s age. They were like Asher at one time, just little kids, and now their innocence is long gone. Was their time in a Waldorf kindergarten of use to them? Did it prepare them at all for the challenges they faced? Did it do any good?

I don’t know. I can never know. I do know that our grown-up kids are resilient and brave. Maybe being in a kindergarten like Asher’s gave them a chance to grow strong. Too many children never have the opportunity to be young. They are forced to grow up way too early, and that causes trouble later on in life. We want Asher to be little boy while he can. We want him to have a childhood.

March 1st, 2025

I have a neighbor who lives down the street from me. I see him every once in a while, although not so much now seeing as it’s winter and it’s cold outside. I used to take walks with my grandson, Asher, in the warmer weather and we would see Rob puttering around in his garage. I never could tell what exactly he was doing. He’s an older gentleman and I think he might be a little deaf because he always had talk radio blaring while he worked. He would have his back turned to the street, puffing on a cigar, oblivious to the world outside of his workshop. I would call out to him. Sometimes, he heard me and turned around to wave at us. Once in a great while, he stopped whatever he was doing, and we’d talk for a bit.

Rob has Marine Corps stickers on the back of one of his cars. He also has stickers showing that he’s a Vietnam vet. Sometimes, we would talk about the military. Rob’s stories are better than mine. Back in August of 2021, he told me one of them. I was there with Asher. He must have been in the stroller because he wasn’t even one year old at the time. Asher wasn’t much interested in what Rob had to say, but I was.

Rob had been a Marine sergeant on a Navy ship in the South China Sea on April 30th, 1975. He was involved when the U.S. frantically tried to evacuate Vietnamese civilians as Saigon was falling. He told me about how chaotic it was. They were shoving aircraft off the side of the ship to make room for more. It was total bedlam.

Rob told me the story the day after Kabul fell to the Taliban. We talked about the evacuation from Afghanistan. I asked him what he thought about it.

He just shook his head and gave me weary smile. Then he said,

“Well, I guess we didn’t learn much.”

It’s almost spring, and soon I will probably see Rob in his garage again.

What will he say to me if I have to tell him that Kyiv has fallen?