This is what I know baby.
These last few days I have sat next to the chair of a dying woman. Her granddaughter, Raffa (Sarah's sister in law) sings to her, and plays the guitar. It is uncomfortable to me to be close to a person dying. I cringe as I type that, because I can imagine DYING is significantly more uncomfortable, and I am selfish. Perhaps I am hardened because I have so much experience with people dying, that I just want to wash my hands of it. Like that is even possible.
She plays her the most beautiful, soft songs. Her grandmother moves her head marginally to the sweetness, and raises her hand in weak salute. Her dying form, juxtaposed with that soul stroking sweet voice of Raffa's is more than my eyes can handle.
Eleanor, the dying woman, says the only thing keeping her alive "is my extreme hatred for that damn monkey", in reference to George Bush. I can't help but laugh. Sarah bought her hemorroid cream, and said she only did it to get in the will, to which Eleanor replied, "Good, good, I will leave you the rest of this tube, and the use of that hooker you promised me".
She plays her the most beautiful, soft songs. Her grandmother moves her head marginally to the sweetness, and raises her hand in weak salute. Her dying form, juxtaposed with that soul stroking sweet voice of Raffa's is more than my eyes can handle.
Eleanor, the dying woman, says the only thing keeping her alive "is my extreme hatred for that damn monkey", in reference to George Bush. I can't help but laugh. Sarah bought her hemorroid cream, and said she only did it to get in the will, to which Eleanor replied, "Good, good, I will leave you the rest of this tube, and the use of that hooker you promised me".