Dad Is Dying

and amble into Dad’s room. He’s pretty wheezy and raspy. I go to the kitchen and grind up some Ativan between two spoons to dissolve into the morphine I will give him. He lies on the pillow, allowing the putrid liquid to drain down his throat, but with no distaste visible on his face. Then he props himself up on his elbows to stare at something that is so compelling he stays there for almost a minute. I’m amazed he has the upper body strength for this. Then he lies