ABSTRACT
“I got released from the hospital and came straight here for class.” Mark Riordan was saying this as we met outside the doors of the Boston Living Center, where I hold a weekly writing workshop for people with HIV and AIDS. His head was wrapped in a kerchief, and under it he was clearly bald, which was new. He looked thinner, and more tired, than he had two weeks ago when I last saw him. He had been in the hospital having a “port” put into his head for chemotherapy and had begun the chemo. Now he was standing here with me, waiting for writing class.
