This is a favorite piece of mine written three years ago. I’m bringing it out of the closet for another wearing.
There was only one reason why my father would be calling me. My mother must be dead.
He explained how it happened, how just last week he had given up taking care of her at home, that for the third time, she’d gone limp in the bathtub and he’d had to call the fire department to come lift her and take her to the cherry wood bed they’d bought as newlyweds 64 years before. He apologized to me. If he hadn’t been holding their ancient wall phone, he would have been wringing his hands. She had only lived a week in the Alzheimer’s Unit and he had visited every night, he said, taking tapes of the music he thought she would remember and playing it on the ancient Press Play tape player they kept in the basement.
He was sure she still knew him. He told me how she had…
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