Clutch
The way I remember it, your dad was dying, not mine, his purple-blotched feet peeking out the edge of the hospice bed, its cold rails raised against a fall. Either a cross or a froth of agnosticism clutched in one hand. Either the priest or the doctor slouched in the hallway, a bible or a sleep-packed syringe in a chokehold. Peonies slumping in vases. Was it your mother or mine shopping for a black dress or pantsuit, a take-home roast beef or ham and scalloped potatoes for guests not yet gathered? Grandchildren galloping, quarreling in the yard. Clucking like chickens.
Photo Credit: burrs&berries
Loved this! A clear picture formed in my mind with those few words!