My Childhood Sweetheart Asked Me to Sign a Special Folder in Room Four Hundred Seven

watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. His skin looked robust, the faint lines around his eyes showing none of the gray exhaustion I had seen in true terminal patients during my years at the clinic.

The scent of institutional bleach mixed with the stale vegetable soup from his dinner tray hung heavy in the air, making me slightly lightheaded.continue reading …