The souls of the terminally ill
My father lay there dying in his bed.
I wished, oh how I wished, for his death.
I can hear his low raspy breath in the night.
In and out. In and out.
The noise was so soft that it shattered the night.
I shiver in my bed, even though I sleep under two comforters. Humph, Comforters.
The dark, dank smell of death hung, like a vulture, in the air.
For weeks, weeks, it was there, hovering over his body.
Was he dead already? No? Why won't he DIE?
Can't he see what he is doing to his family. . . My family.
He is tearing us apart.
No. . . no. . . NO. . . He's bringing us together.