Nani's profile

His blue eyes gleam with morphine. The thin mouth opens and closes, fish-like, the skeletal outline of his jaw working against thin, gruel-colored skin. His chin quivers, and then quiets. The preternaturally bright eyes begin to droop; the lids flutter and close. I lean in, my hands clenching the bedrails. “Dad!” I shout, only a foot away from his head. “You doing alright? You need anything?” My words float out into the stale air and dissipate. I stand back and idly ...

“Hanna is sick,” says my son. I bargain. “We can still come over,” I say quickly and breezily into the receiver. “Granddad and I will watch the big girls while you take Hanna to the doctor.” A muffled conference ensues on the other end of the phone. I watch our pool sweep make languid arcs through the sparkling blue water. If it were summertime the girls might be in that blue water right now, Granddad teaching them how to swim. If all goes well for me tod...

Sunday morning, December 11. The car radio is blasting, the grandkids are jabbering in the back seat. My mind is on the baby shower to be held later that day. I reach down into my purse and check my cell. One missed message. I push the “View” button and see that the missed call is from my youngest son. My chest tightens. But he calls a lot, it could be anything. I turn off the radio and my husband takes his eyes off the road for a second to glance over at me, but I say nothing. I...

His blue eyes gleam with morphine. His mouth opens and closes, fish-like, the skeletal outline of his jaw working against thin, gruel-colored skin. His chin quivers, and then quiets. The preternaturally bright eyes begin to droop; the lids flutter and close. I lean in, my hands clenching the silver bedrails. “Dad!” I’m shouting, only a foot away from his bed. “You doing alright? You need anything?” I look up at the clock –- the round, industrial variety ...

His blue eyes gleam with morphine. His mouth opens and closes, fish-like, the skeletal outline of his jaw working against thin, gruel-colored skin. His chin quivers, and then quiets. The preternaturally bright eyes begin to droop; the lids flutter and close. I lean in, my hands clenching the silver bedrails. “Dad!” I’m shouting, only a foot away from his bed. “You doing alright? You need anything?” I look up at the clock –- the round, industrial variety -- perched just above the heavy gray f...