I’m at the hospital. They ask me my name, reason for visit. I simply state that I’m the daughter of Deborah T. A few moments later, the nurse calls my name and says, Follow me. I approach a closed curtain. Dear Mother’s leg is hanging off the bed, mouth wide open, cold, just like Pop-Pop. At this point Mother is the only one left. The last of the Mohicans, of her kin. Everyone has died, so they say. Even my daughter of 14 days. I silently beg…
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