"heart attack."
i have my hand on my forehead, my stomach tight.
my sister sits with her daughter on her lap, her wife on her way home from new orleans.
i can't register a word the nurse is saying to mom.
all i see is the white sheet pulled over dad's lifeless body.
YOU ARE READING
clouded
Poetrycigarettes, to the broken soul, are what advil is to an aching head. an escape from all pain. -- best rank: #974 in short story
