Once upon a time, before the advent of highly active anti-retroviral therapy for HIV, most of my friends died of AIDS. It was gruesome and it was devastating. But since there was no way to hide the wounds, it was also a time of true tenderness and rich vulnerability. Remembering some of the more than 130 friends who died of AIDS, I explore the question: “Even though, in the world today, we can hide our wounds more easily, who asks you, ‘Where does it hurt?'”

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