One Scrap of Paper from Oak Creek Hospital Rewrote Thirty-Four Years of What My Family Remembered
Room 4 at St.
Jude Hospice was silent except for the steady click of the oxygen regulator on the wall.
Frank lay under the thin yellow blanket, his body looking almost weightless against the white sheets.
I sat in the vinyl chair next to his bed, holding his dry right hand between both of mine.
His skin was thin as paper and cold against my fingers.
Outside the window, late afternoon rain ran down the glass in long, crooked streaks.
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