Day 88

Awake.

 

Left hand moves.

 

Church.  Sort of.  Steeple.  Sort of.

 

Key board?

 

Stroke.

 

Her hands move the keyboard gently under my weakened hands.

 

Me:  Hello.

 

Her:  Hello.

 

Me:  Day?

 

Her:  88

 

Me:   Wonder?  How am I?  Really?

 

Her:  Not great.  Things are shutting down?

 

Me: What’s left.

 

Her:   Tubes and skin.  The great reconstruction isn’t going well.

 

Me:  Hands hurt.

 

Her:  Wait a day.

 

Me:  Tomorrow, shoot me up with all you got.

 

Her:  All we got is what got you here.

 

Me:   Christ.

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