I pulled it onto the dock and bent down to remove the hook, then I watched as it flipped around next to me, first briskly, then slowly, and then limply, something I had never seen before.
All tagged dying
I pulled it onto the dock and bent down to remove the hook, then I watched as it flipped around next to me, first briskly, then slowly, and then limply, something I had never seen before.
I remember him, but not his name; stoic, a keen intellect, just shy of government-sanctioned retirement age. A mountain of hospital bills added to the depression he was being treated for.
My bare knees on the rough sidewalk, my hand to his shoulder, I’m shouting, “Hey mister, take a breath!”
I comb through her closet, a history of her body and life before dementia and heart failure.
My sister lies dying. She cradles a rag doll. “It looks like you,” she says.
I am convinced I am dying in the bathroom of a coffee chain in Copenhagen.
“I sold another book.” Mom had persuaded another person to buy my novel.
Tripping over her tongue tumor, my mom croaks out a few words. “You fold socks the right way, Emily,” she manages.