Danny Boy

Bai Xian Yong

Shao Hua:

I must finish this letter before my vision blurs completely. My time is very limited, and I’m not sure if I’ll be able to recount the final chapter of my life for you in full. Before I leave, I need to let you understand my current state of mind. I know that all these years, you’ve been worrying about me. I can’t leave like this and let you continue to worry in vain. The doctor said the virus has already invaded my eyeballs, and at any moment, my sight could go dark, and this world would vanish from me. I must hurry and write down a few things for you.

Everything began last autumn. It was late November, the deep of fall, and the weather had already turned cold. As I walked through the streets of Manhattan, the cold wind lashed against me. That day, I left St. Vincent’s Hospital and took the subway home, getting off at 57th Street. I turned a corner and, without thinking, found myself in Central Park again. The park was the same as always—people jogging in sportswear, people walking their dogs, and a group of Latino teenagers practicing baseball on the grass, their shouts in Spanish echoing around. It was around five or six in the evening, and the setting sun still cast its light through the gaps in the trees, scattering across the withered leaves on the ground. These were all familiar sights, yet I felt as though I had suddenly stepped into an unfamiliar place. Everything around me seemed unreal. Even the towering buildings on Fifth Avenue across the park, in the soft twilight, looked like a mirage, like distant, hazy shadows. I could feel it—my familiar world was rapidly disintegrating.

I sat down on a bench by the Boathouse Pond in the park, my mind blank, my nerves completely numb. For a moment, all my panic and fear were frozen. In that instant, I felt a strange sense of relief, as if everything had already been decided. What was meant to happen had finally come. At the hospital, the elderly Jewish doctor had placed my blood test results in front of me and solemnly told me that I was HIV positive. He explained the diagnosis at length and prescribed a large number of medications. Before I left, he added a few words of comfort and encouragement. But I had already suspected the results. For the past two months, the constant low fever, the uncontrollable cough, and the frequent night sweats had made me realize that the end was near. Deep down, I might have even been hoping for this day to come quickly, to bring an early end to my barren and twisted life.

Three years ago, I left Taipei without a word. I imagine you’ve already come to terms with it. I’ve always had a faint hope that you would forgive all my absurdities. I left that city in a panic. The school principal, showing me mercy, asked me to resign and leave quietly. I assume he didn’t want the news to spread and damage the school’s reputation. He probably couldn’t face explaining to the students how the model teacher he so often praised had violated the school’s primary code of conduct by committing such a shameful act.

These past years, I’ve hidden away in New York, cutting off all contact with the past, including with you, Shao Hua. I’ve had to sever ties with everything, to live in a vacuum of forgotten memories in order to survive. Thankfully, New York is so vast and indifferent. Disappearing into the crowds of Manhattan wasn’t difficult. Here, I floated between two worlds. By day, I worked in a university library, spending my hours in the basement archives, surrounded by musty old books. But at night, when I returned to my loft on 69th Street, I would impatiently put on my nightclothes and lose myself in the grid of Manhattan’s streets, following the night hunters in their groups of two or three, chasing through the streets until the late hours of the night, until dawn.

Just before daybreak, we would drag our exhausted bodies to our final destination: Central Park. Like owls, we would sneak along the path by the Boathouse Pond, cross two hills, and slip into the dark, primordial forest in the center of the park. Hidden between the ancient trees were bodies lying silently in wait. In the darkness, the eyes of the night prowlers glowed like those of wild beasts, flashing with the light of desire. It was the unbearable hunger of the flesh, along with the searing loneliness of the long night, that drove us from all corners to this vast wilderness in the heart of the civilized metropolis. In the protective cover of night, we huddled together for warmth, performing our collective ritual of devouring one another before the first light of dawn.

Shao Hua, in New York, I was falling—falling straight down, as if I had been sucked into a whirlpool in the sea, drowning with no way out. When I arrived in this city in 1985, the terrifying plague had already spread through our community like tendrils of black smoke. It was like the invisible monsters in science fiction films—everywhere yet unseen. On the streets at night, in crowded bars, in the steamy Turkish baths, or in the dark depths of the park’s forest, I could feel its looming presence. We all huddled together, almost fatalistically waiting for it to come and consume us one by one. The plague turned New York into a city of death, yet we seemed to be under some kind of curse, participating in this collective game of death.

After leaving the park that day, I didn’t go home right away. Instead, I went to McGee’s on 72nd Street to get drunk. McGee’s is an Irish bar I often frequent. Its decor is old-fashioned, with thick green velvet covering the tables and chairs. In the past, McGee’s was the most popular gay bar in Midtown, packed with people every night after 10 PM. But over time, the crowds thinned out. The owner, Frank, said that half of the regulars had been taken by the plague. Frank’s young lover, Paul, who worked as a bartender at McGee’s, had just passed away from the illness last week. It was a Friday night, but the bar was only half-full. The low murmur of voices seemed to be stifled by an invisible fear. That night, Marianne, the resident singer at McGee’s, was performing some old hits. It was said that she had once had a promising career, but had since fallen to singing in small bars. She had a husky, deep voice, and sang of the sorrows of life with a casual ease. That night, she wore a tight black satin gown with a red ribbon pinned to her chest in memory of those who had died from AIDS. Her pale blond hair was loosely tied in a bun, and the delicate wrinkles on her face reflected the fading elegance of her youth. Around midnight, Marianne announced that she would close the night with Danny Boy. She explained that the old Irish ballad was a lament from a father for his son who had died young. She dedicated the song to Paul and all those who would never hear her sing again. That night, Marianne sang with particular emotion:

But when ye come and all the flowers are dying,
If I am dead, as dead I well may be,
You'll come and find the place where I am lying,
And kneel and say an Ave there for me.

Shao Hua, I had heard that old Irish ballad many times before, but that night, Marianne’s trembling, sorrowful voice struck a deep chord within me, stirring up my own grief. I mourned for the children who had been lost forever, taking with them my youth and my life.

Shao Hua, you once praised me for being named “Teacher of the Year” every year and took pride in my achievements. Indeed, during my years at C High School, I poured all my energy into that prestigious institution. To the principal and my colleagues, I was an impeccable teacher. I dedicated all my time and energy to my students, teaching and caring for them. In the eyes of those 17- and 18-year-olds, I was their most respected "Mr. Wu." But Shao Hua, even you were unaware of the deepest secret I harbored: my obsession with those young boys. It was an obsession that drained me to the core, a secret desire that I kept tightly locked inside, corroding my heart day by day.

For twelve years, I taught senior-year English, and each year, I would find myself drawn to a pair of melancholic eyes, to the soft strands of hair falling across a boy’s forehead, to the lonely figure standing apart from the rest. There was always one solitary boy, carrying his backpack and walking in his own shadow, who became the source of my torment for the entire year. This obsession was terrifying. Every day, I would wait for that one hour—sometimes from ten to eleven in the morning, sometimes from three to four in the afternoon—when I taught senior-year English. In those brief fifty minutes, I would be in the same room as the boy I adored, sharing a fleeting moment in time. But oh, how important those fifty minutes were! For in that time, my beloved was right before me. Sometimes, the sunlight would fall upon him through the window, and all I could see was a silhouette bathed in a soft golden glow—a distant, unreachable figure. Other times, I would lead the class in reading aloud, and in the chorus of voices, I could hear only his young voice responding to mine. That was the closest I ever came to him, my only moment of solace, until the bell rang, snapping me out of mytemporary reverie. And so, day after day, this cycle of intense yearning and despair repeated itself. By the end of the school year, when the farewell songs were sung, the image of the boy that had taken root in my heart would be abruptly torn away. The pain of it was like a piece of flesh being ripped from my chest, and that boy would disappear from my life forever, never knowing that someone had bled for him. Of course, I kept this secret hidden, ensuring that no one ever saw the turmoil raging inside me. Year after year, I grew closer to middle age, approaching forty. Yet the decline of my body didn’t extinguish the fire that burned within me. Every day, I endured the searing flames of my inner torment, and only during those fifty minutes with the boy in my class could I find a moment of peace. Those fifty minutes with him were the very reason I got through each day.

My final collapse at C High happened like this. K was a student in my last senior-year English class. He was an unusually solitary child, always keeping to himself, and I had never seen him speak to anyone. His isolation was absolute. I would watch this melancholy, frail boy walk down the corridor, his slender back fading into the distance, and I would feel an inexplicable sorrow. The school year was coming to an end, and the boy who had occupied my heart for an entire year would soon vanish. In the last week of the semester, K suddenly stopped coming to class and was absent for several days in a row. Then one evening, during a heavy downpour, K showed up at my dormitory door, soaked through. He had come to submit his English essay. I had a strict rule in class that any late assignments would receive a zero. K, with his essay clutched in his hand, entered my room. Under the light, I noticed how pale he was, and his voice trembled as he spoke. This boy, who had always been so silent, told me in halting words why he had missed school. K’s father, a low-level government employee, had suddenly died from a stroke the previous week, and as an only child, K had to stay home to help his mother with the funeral arrangements. K knew that his English grade wasn’t strong, and if he got a zero on this essay, he would fail the class, which would affect his ability to graduate. “Mr. Wu—” he handed me the essay, his eyes pleading with me for mercy. His wet hair dripped down his face, and at that moment, I pulled K into my arms and held him tightly. I pressed my face against his wet hair, pouring out all the love and tenderness I had for him, the yearning and desire I had kept locked away all year. No, it wasn’t just for K—it was for all the boys who had disappeared from my heart over the years, one after another. I held him tighter and tighter, terrified that this lonely boy would also slip away from me. K began to panic and then grow frightened, struggling to break free from my grip. His elbow jabbed painfully into my ribs, and with a sharp pain, I let go. K ran out into the rain, fleeing from my dormitory. He reported me to the principal, telling him that “Mr. Wu has lost his mind.” K wasn’t wrong, Shao Hua. In that moment, I really had gone mad.

That night at McGee’s, I sat drinking until 4 a.m., when the bar closed. When I returned to my loft on 69th Street, I swallowed all the sleeping pills the doctor had prescribed for a month. That night, I drank seven or eight glasses of whiskey, straight, yet my mind was frighteningly clear. The doctor had told me that my immune system’s T-cells had dropped below 200 and that I could fall ill at any moment. A young insurance salesman had lived in the apartment below me, a guy who used to run in Central Park wearing shorts, his body toned with muscle. Last year, he suddenly fell ill, his entire body covered with dark purple Kaposi’s sarcoma lesions. When I passed him in the hallway, I could smell the stench of rotting flesh from a distance. He died in his apartment, his body undiscovered for three days. In our circle, rumors circulated constantly about the horror stories surrounding this plague. They said that some people, in their final moments, no longer had the strength to lift a hand to pull out their oxygen tubes. I couldn’t wait for that day to come—lying alone in my loft, slowly rotting away. I couldn’t bear the thought of dying a slow, isolated death. I had no attachment to my empty life, and I knew I should end it early.

But my suicide attempt failed, and the landlord sent me to the hospital. Yet what I never expected was that, at the end of my life, in the depths of despair, I would meet the person I had longed for all my life—my Danny Boy.

At St. Vincent’s Hospital, a volunteer nun from Shanti House, Sister Rosemary, said to me: “You can’t leave yet. There’s someone who needs your care.” Her words struck me like a commandment from above, and I couldn’t help but obey. After I was discharged from the hospital, Sister Rosemary brought me to Shanti House to receive two weeks of training and to start volunteering. I don’t know why, Shao Hua, but when I saw Sister Rosemary in her white nurse’s uniform, I immediately thought of you. Though she’s much larger than you, the compassionate look in her eyes when she cared for patients reminded me of you. I remember when I visited you at the hospital, watching you gently massage the abdomen of a dying cancer patient to ease their pain. I saw tears glistening in your eyes.

Shanti House is an AIDS support organization where those with milder symptoms care for those who are more critically ill, so that when their own condition worsens, there will be someone to take care of them. Aside from professional medical staff, there are over thirty regular volunteers from all walks of life—chefs, barbers, professors, and even a former Episcopalian priest who is himself HIV positive. He often recites prayers for the dying. There are also several Asian volunteers, including a Filipino nurse and a Hong Kong fashion designer. Every day, we report to Shanti House, located on the outskirts of Greenwich Village, and then head out to hospitals or patients’ homes. Shanti House also runs a shelter on East 6th Street for homeless patients in the final stages of AIDS.

The first patient assigned to me was Danny O'Donnell, an eighteen-year-old boy. He had been in and out of St. Vincent’s several times, and this last time he was admitted for acute pneumonia. The doctor said he had only a few weeks to live, so he was transferred to the shelter at Shanti House. His previous caretaker had fallen ill and was hospitalized, so I was assigned to take over. I will never forget, Shao Hua, it was December 1st of last year, a cold, bleak afternoon with thick clouds gathering in the sky. The first big snowstorm of the season was about to hit New York. Following the address, I found my way to East 6th Street. It was an old, quiet neighborhood. At one end of the street was a small church, Our Lady of Sorrows, and across from it, a synagogue. The shelter was at the far end of the street, a three-story apartment building covered in ivy, its windows and doors hidden beneath the vines, giving it a somewhat secretive appearance. Inside the shelter, there were fifteen hospice rooms spread across three floors, with only two male nurses rushing about. One of the nurses, a Black man, sighed with relief when he saw me and said, “Thank God you’re here. We haven’t had time to check on Danny upstairs.” He told me that two patients had died that morning, and they’d been busy handling the aftermath. In the dimly lit building, I could faintly hear groans of pain from the half-closed doors of the rooms on each floor. The heating was turned up too high, and the air was stuffy.

Danny’s room was on the third floor, facing the street. He was lying alone in a bed by the window. When he saw me enter, he smiled weakly and said, “I thought you weren’t coming today, Mr. Wu.” His voice was faint, and it seemed that he had been anxiously waiting for me. Danny looked even younger than his eighteen years. His hair was cut short, his face pale and sickly, and he lay curled up under the sheets like a sick child. “I’m thirsty,” Danny said weakly. I got him a glass of water and helped him sit up in bed. He gulped the water down in one breath, as if he had been parched for a long time. “Danny, you need a bath,” I said to him. “I must smell like a skunk, right, Mr. Wu?” Danny smiled sheepishly. His body emitted a pungent odor, and his white nightgown was stained with yellow and black patches from his bodily fluids. I went to the bathroom and filled the tub with hot water, then helped Danny out of bed. He put one arm around my neck, and we supported each other as we stumbled into the bathroom. I removed his soiled nightgown and carefully lowered his frail body into the bathtub. Danny was nothing but skin and bones, his ribs jutting out as if his thin, pale skin were loosely draped over a skeleton. His back had several bedsores, some of which had split open. I gently sponged his body, but even then, Danny yelped in pain likea wounded puppy. After what felt like an eternity, I finally finished washing Danny’s body. Together, we stumbled back to his room, both of us exhausted.

During the volunteer training, Sister Rosemary had taught us how to properly fasten a catheter. She told us that terminal patients often lose control of their bladder and bowels, so this would be essential. Her chubby hands were incredibly skillful, tying the catheter with ease. I went to the Black nurse to get one for Danny, then carefully secured it on him. Lying back in bed with the catheter in place, his long legs stretched out helplessly, Danny looked a bit comical and pitiful. I couldn’t help but laugh and said, “Danny Boy, you look like a big baby.” Danny glanced at himself and sighed with a touch of resignation. After the bath, his pale face regained a bit of color, and beneath his thin, blond eyebrows, his green eyes glimmered like pieces of glass. His sharp nose curved slightly upward at the tip, and though illness had ravaged his features, it was clear that he had once been a strikingly handsome boy, still bearing the traces of youthful innocence. But his eye sockets were dark and bruised, like he’d been punched. His mouth was full of sores, so he could only drink liquids. I fed him a can of cherry-flavored nutritional drink, then reconnected the intravenous drip for his antibiotics, which he needed all night to keep his pneumonia at bay. The doctor said Danny’s T-cell count had dropped to just a handful, leaving him with almost no immune system. “You’ll come back tomorrow, right, Mr. Wu?” Danny asked anxiously as I was about to leave. “I’ll be here first thing in the morning,” I promised, tucking the blankets around him before saying goodbye.

That evening, as I walked through St. Mark’s Square, the first snowflakes of the season began to fall. They stung my face, and I shivered violently. Every day at this time, my temperature would rise, and I could feel my cheeks burning with fever. Yet, Shao Hua, I must tell you that in that moment, I felt an inexplicable surge of emotion—the first real sensation I’d had in three years of living in New York. For three years, my heart had been dead, and I suffered from severe psychosomatic numbness. At times, my limbs would feel as if they had been frozen, turning completely numb, unable to distinguish between hot and cold. Even when I burned my fingers and raised blisters, I couldn’t feel a thing. But at that moment, as I lifted Danny out of the bathtub and helped his frail body step by step back to his room, a strange sense of warmth washed over me. I felt as though all the children I had lost were suddenly returning, coming back to me, sick and dying, waiting for my comfort and rescue. When I connected Danny’s IV, I noticed that his arms were covered in bruises from the countless needle pricks. The sight of that frail body, covered in wounds, stirred a deep sense of compassion in me that I couldn’t control. As I walked through the snow and wind that night in St. Mark’s Square, I realized that the flickering embers of my life, long reduced to ashes, had begun to glow again.

I cared for Danny for only two weeks, until the night of December 14th, when he passed away. During those days, I threw myself into his care with an almost manic intensity. Those were the most exhausting and physically demanding days of my life, but they were also the most fulfilling fourteen days I’ve ever lived.

Danny would break out in night sweats. One morning, I arrived to find him lying in a pool of sweat, his nightgown soaked through and freezing cold against his body. That night, I decided to move into Shanti House’s shelter so I could be with him 24/7. The nurses welcomed me enthusiastically—they were grateful to have an extra set of hands. The Black nurse gave me a blanket and said I could sleep on the carpet in Danny’s room. Shao Hua, I truly experienced what it’s like to be a full-time caregiver. I remember you once told me that during your first week as a special nurse, you lost two kilograms. Every night, I got up two or three times to change Danny’s clothes and wipe his body dry. His night sweats were so severe that I laid a thick towel over the bed to absorb the moisture, which helped him sleep a little more peacefully. I slept on the carpet beside Danny’s bed, keeping vigil over him until morning. Sometimes, I would wake up in the middle of the night and crawl over to listen to his breathing, fearful that it might suddenly stop while I slept. I knew that Danny’s fragile life was like a flickering candle, on the verge of being snuffed out at any moment. And yet, I treasured every second I spent with my Danny Boy.

Under my care, Danny’s condition stabilized for a few days, and he wasn’t as weak. One day, he was feeling better, so I helped him into a clean nightgown and sat him in the armchair by the window, wrapping him in a blanket. The snow had stopped, and the sun shone brightly outside. The branches of the trees were covered with ice, and icicles dangled from them, glittering in the sunlight. Danny hadn’t noticed the outside world for a long time, and seeing the sparkling icicles on the trees, he seemed excited. “Mr. Wu,” he said to me, “Christmas is coming soon, isn’t it?” “In seventeen days,” I replied. “Two weeks ago, I called my parents and said I wanted to come home for Christmas. They freaked out and immediately sent me $200,” Danny said with a wry smile. “They don’t want me to come home. They’re afraid I’ll give AIDS to my younger siblings.”

Danny’s family lived in Newark, New Jersey. His father was a laborer, descended from Irish immigrants, and his family was devoutly Catholic. Danny was the eldest of six children, and the family was poor. His father was strict, and his mother was chronically ill. Danny had run away to Manhattan at sixteen to make a life for himself, working all kinds of odd jobs. He delivered pizza in Little Italy for a long time. Last year, when he was diagnosed with AIDS, he called his mother, who cried on the phone and begged him to go to church to pray and confess his sins to God. Danny said he wasn’t a good Catholic and hadn’t been to church once since coming to New York. But he promised that once he felt a little better, he would go to Our Lady of Sorrows on the corner for Mass. “I hope God will forgive me,” Danny said earnestly. “I’ve done a lot of stupid things.” He shook his head in regret. Not long after arriving in New York, he had been arrested and sent to jail for transporting two packets of heroin for a drug dealer. In prison, he was raped repeatedly. “There were five or six guys at a time,” he said. “White, Black, Latino—there was even an Indian!” Danny made a grim face. The doctor suspected that he might have contracted the virus during his time in prison. After a brief pause, Danny said quietly, “The doctor says I don’t have much time left. I wonder if I’ll make it through this Christmas.” I brought him a cup of milk and said, “I’ll buy some eggnog for Christmas. We can drink it together.”

On the morning of the tenth day, Danny suddenly began to complain of a severe headache, clutching his head in agony and rolling around the bed. Sister Rosemary had warned us that in the final stages of the illness, the virus might invade the brain cells, causing extreme pain. I rushed to get the Black nurse, who injected Danny with a heavy dose of morphine. Before long, Danny’s mind became muddled. Sometimes he stared at me with blank, unrecognizing eyes, and other times he cried like a little child. I sat beside him, gently patting his back until he fell into a deep sleep. In the last two days, Danny slipped into a coma. Even with the oxygen mask on, his breathing was labored—each breath causing his chest to rise dramatically before he struggled to exhale. His hands constantly twitched and grabbed at the air.

On the evening of the fourteenth, Danny’s breathing grew fainter and fainter. Twice, it seemed as though he had stopped breathing entirely, but after a moment, he would suddenly gasp for air again, his throat making a gurgling sound as if he was fighting for his last breath. It was a terrible struggle. I sat on the edge of his bed, lifted him up, and let his frail body lean against my chest. Then I slowly removed his oxygen mask. Danny immediately calmed down. His head fell forward onto my chest, and his body gradually grew cold. My Danny Boy finally took his last breath in my arms.

Shao Hua, the sun is setting outside, and dusk is approaching. My vision is also dimming. The doctor says the retinas in my eyes are beginning to detach, and I could go blind at any moment. This morning, when I got up to use the bathroom, I lost my balance. Fortunately, David was there to catch me, or I would have fallen. David is the volunteer from Shanti House who’s been assigned to care for me. He’s a tall Texan, over six feet tall, with a shaved head, a red bandana tied around his forehead, and a gold earring in his right ear. He looks like a pirate from Treasure Island. But David has a gentle heart and is an excellent caregiver. He’s been volunteering at Shanti House for two years and has seen nine patients through their final days, including his longtime partner. “Don’t worry,” this Texan pirate reassures me, “I’ll be right here with you.”

Shao Hua, after going through Danny’s death, I no longer fear death myself. In fact, I’m fully prepared, waiting for it to come whenever it may. Since Danny passed away, it’s only been a month, and now my own symptoms have begun. Although my body is wracked with various forms of suffering, and sometimes the pain is so intense that I’m drenched in cold sweat, requiring morphine injections to numb it, I don’t feel anxious. Instead, I’ve reached a state of unprecedented peace. At this final stage of my life, that loneliness which had gnawed at me for so long has suddenly disappeared. Shao Hua, I no longer feel alone—that is my state of mind now.

I remember when we were both young—I was about twelve, and you were probably eight or nine. One day, I took you to the stream behind the mountains in Xindian to play. It had just rained heavily, and the stream was rushing. I accidentally slipped and fell into the water, getting carried downstream for about twenty or thirty feet before being stopped by a large rock. I crawled onto the shore, my forehead bruised and bleeding. You rushed over to me, looking terrified, and tears streamed down your face at the sight of my injured state. Many years later, whenever you came to visit me at school, I could still see that same look of fear and concern beneath your warm smile. I know you’ve worried about me ever since we were children. When you receive this letter, I may have already passed away. I want you to know that I’m leaving without regrets, and you needn’t be sad for me. You’ve worked in a hospital for many years and have seen life and death up close many times. I trust that this time, you will also be able to face it calmly. You are religious, so please, say a prayer for me.

David has come in. He brought me dinner—wonton noodles from a nearby Cantonese restaurant. I’ll end my letter here.

Brother Yun
April 29, 1988

Brother Yun's loft on 69th Street is on the fifth floor. The east-facing window overlooks the street, and when I look out from it, the first thing I see is a vast sea of white flowers blooming on the pear trees that line the sidewalk. The flowers are so dense, one layer piled upon the next, and when the wind blows, it sends the petals flying through the air like confetti. I never expected that spring in Manhattan could be so tumultuous. I rushed from Taipei to New York three days ago, but Brother Yun had already passed. The volunteer from Shanti House, David, told me he died here in his apartment, just as he had wished. I came to New York hoping I could care for Brother Yun during his final days. It had been my long-held wish. When I was accepted into nursing school, I told Brother Yun, “When you get sick, I’ll be your nurse.” That memory of him slipping into the stream and injuring himself—the sight of him sitting on the ground, his face covered in blood and pain—has always been etched into my mind. Brother Yun was a wounded person, and that is how I’ve always seen him.

Brother Yun was my uncle’s posthumous son. After giving birth to Brother Yun, my aunt remarried and moved to Japan. Brother Yun was reluctantly brought into our family, and his presence always felt like a burden. My father was indifferent to it all—he was too busy working at the trading company to pay attention to family matters. But my mother, narrow-minded as she was, saw Brother Yun as an unwanted addition, especially after my younger brother, Fu Zai, was born. At New Year’s dinner, when we had a whole chicken, the drumsticks were reserved for my little brother, while I got the breast, and Brother Yun was left with the neck and feet. Brother Yun, however, knew his place. He kept to himself, staying on the fringes of the family and quietly dedicating himself to his studies. At school, he was always at the top of his class, an excellent student. In his teenage years, Brother Yun was a delicate, gentle boy. I had always been close to him since we were children. I felt a sense of injustice on his behalf because of my mother’s favoritism, and I was always protective of him. At that time, I was probably his only friend. When I saw his solitary figure wandering like a drifting cloud with no place to settle, my heart would ache for him. On summer nights, under the starry sky, we would sit by the Xindian River, talking about our futures and dreams. I told him I wanted to be a nurse, inspired by Florence Nightingale’s biography. I felt that caring for the sick was a noble duty, and I loved the stiff white nurse’s cap—I thought wearing it would make me look important. Brother Yun told me he wanted to become a high school teacher. He had great patience and never got frustrated helping me with my homework, so I knew he would be a good teacher one day. Sure enough, he went on to study English at the Teachers’ University, fulfilling his dream.

After Brother Yun started university, he rarely came home, and we drifted apart. I became a nurse, fell in love, got married, and lived a busy but happy life, constantly rushing between shifts. In the chaos of it all, Brother Yun was temporarily forgotten. By the time my own life had settled down and I started thinking about him again, Brother Yun had already been teaching at C High School for several years. Occasionally, I would visit his dormitory, where I saw that his walls were lined with certificates of excellence from the Ministry of Education, recognizing him as an outstanding teacher year after year. Beneath the certificates were framed graduation photos with his students, starting from 1971, each year lined up neatly in order. The students in the photos were always young, while Brother Yun had gradually become a middle-aged teacher. Three years ago, the last time I visited him, he took me to a small restaurant near the school for dumplings. After dinner, it was still early, so we took a walk to the botanical garden and sat for a while by the lotus pond. It was an autumn evening, and the lotuses had already bloomed, leaving behind only a faint fragrance in the leaves. Brother Yun spoke to me about the difficulties of teaching—how students were becoming less diligent, with too many distractions, making them hard to manage. “It’s not easy being a teacher,” Brother Yun said with a bitter smile before falling silent. The setting sun cast its golden light on him, and for the first time, I noticed the gray hairs at his temples. He was only in his forties, but the wrinkles on his forehead and around his eyes made him look much older than his age. The sense of melancholy that had always haunted him in his youth had deepened over the years. I could feel that Brother Yun was burdened by something heavy, that he was profoundly unhappy. Not long after, Brother Yun disappeared without a word.

David, the volunteer from Shanti House, had tidied up Brother Yun’s loft, leaving no sign of the chaos of his final days. The bedding had been removed from his bed, leaving only an empty frame. The room had been disinfected, and the strong smell of cleaning agents lingered in the air. I opened the window to let in the fresh breeze, hoping to clear away some of the scent. In the hospital, when a patient in the isolation ward for infectious diseases passes away, the cleaning crew comes in immediately to disinfect the room. Last month, we had our first AIDS patient die in our hospital, and it was treated like a major event. The cleaning staff entered the room dressed in full protective gear, looking like astronauts. They must have used an excessive amount of disinfectant because the strong, pungent smell lingered for days, detectable from afar as you approached the room.

Brother Yun overestimated me. Although I’ve worked in a hospital for ten years and have been around life and death many times, I’ve never truly learned to face it with complete composure. Early in my career, I worked in the oncology ward, where I witnessed the extreme suffering of terminal cancer patients, their agonizing struggle against death. It left my spirit shaken, and when I went home, my heart would tremble for hours, unable to find peace. Often, I would quietly slip out to Huashan Church at the end of my street to pray in the evenings, kneeling in silence, weeping before God for the misery of this world, confessing my own helplessness and fear. But the demands of my profession, along with the passage of time, eventually hardened me, turning me into a skilled nurse capable of shouldering the burden of sickness and pain. I came to understand that as a nurse, the final duty I had to my terminally ill patients was to help them cross over peacefully. David, the volunteer from Shanti House, told me that Brother Yun passed away peacefully, with a clear mind until the end. He said Brother Yun was one of the most serene patients he had ever cared for. I believe him. At the final moment of his life, Brother Yun no longer felt lonely. The sunlight streaming through the window fell across Brother Yun’s empty bed, and I knelt beside it, leaning against the frame, praying for Brother Yun, for his Danny Boy, and for the countless souls who had lost their lives to this plague.