The fog has rolled in. Forever summer has ended. I watch sunset through calcified memories captured in a warped globe of fragility.
I am shaken from reverie. There is an urgency to Fred’s voice that makes me hurry my slipper-padded steps to the back bedroom.
Fred has fallen. There’s visible swelling on his forehead and his arm is turned at a funny angle. His crooked smile is weary. Morphine shows herself to be an angel. I dial the hospice nurse and leave voicemail. Surely they won’t deny Fred an ambulance ride?
His head in my lap, we wait.
Rochelle Wisoff-Fields is the summery host of Friday Fictioneers.