“I’m a little hot.” Even she could hear the bitterness in her voice. It had woven itself around every tendril of hope – tightening, relentless, until all had dissolved into an acrid pool. She adored the summer, but she should have died by Spring. She knew it. They all knew it, although this had never been said aloud, of course. The hospice staff had begun to look worried as they changed her bed and checked her tubing in the mornings. They’d look at her dubiously, and not without a hint of accusation.
© Nadia Brown, 2016