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November 16, 2006

Tanya: Traditions

Her voice croaked at me from across the room. Abigail and mother seemed to understand her, but to me it was just a rasp. Like static on an old radio.

Her skin was a pale grey color, and she couldn’t lift her head from the pillows. She was my favorite aunt. She would die at home, in this shabby room. Even the hospice nurse had given up.

I watched until she faded away, waited until everyone left. Then I ripped open the box of Pall Malls that still sat on her nightstand. I found her matches and lit my first.

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