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The Reason For Hospital Visiting Hours It was a thrill, sneaking past security – like a student ditching school, to hell with rules when there were important things to do. They said she was dying, in that world of opaque-eyed turnips dozing between drips of earth and sky. My hands on her crinkled skin made the monitor whir. I knew she knew. Hope was hard to pack away with cooking pots and pearls – she didn‘t live 99 years to go this way. I read up on it, and that night I burst with ideas into her room – music, the smell of meatballs, whispers of I met the one, granny, you were right, as usual. Things were being changed; the bedding, her diaper. I got there too soon, saw her flopping head, gown scrunched up to her chest. The nurse was a child playing dress-up with her doll, rag-filled arms and legs, mind full of silence. She was dying.


SPIRACLE JOURNAL Volume I Issue No. 1  

Re. In. Vent.

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