January 27/365

By spring, Nann had recovered enough to take care of herself, but Andy stayed on to help with Mary Margaret. The walker was retired for an electric wheel chair. She climbed her last stair, stepped into her last shower, and pulled out her last contact lens. “My life is whittled down,” she told Nann. Mary Margaret was thirty-six.

Nann cupped her grand-daughter’s hand in her knobby fingers, like something too fragile to touch. Her fierce gaze took in the debris of infirmity around them; she studied the wall of pill bottles on the counter. “We can’t breathe in here,” ….