Visiting
I am drifting towards her like vapor. Buddha and Social workers teach us not to assume what goes on within each other’s worlds. Regardless, I see me in her mind, through the haze of disease and hollowed corridors of her memory. Is he real? she wonders. He is my father. He is my husband? My name, as I repeat it, comes to visit, too; the sound folding into the outline of my body, bringing me closer to wherever she might be. For this purpose, I wear the same yellow button-down shirt every time, my hospice badge clipped to the pocket. I never know what will find the switch. She has remembered...
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