The hospital room smelled like antiseptic and the faint lavender lotion my wife, Carol, always kept in her purse. I sat in the vinyl chair beside her bed, holding her thin hand and listening to the slow rhythm of the machines.
Thirty-six years of marriage had come down to this small square of light.
« Do you remember the porch swing? » I asked.
Her eyes fluttered open. « You painted it green. »
« Our daughter hated it. »
« She was four. She hated everything that wasn’t pink. »
The hospital room smelled like antiseptic.
Carol smiled, then winced. I squeezed her hand.
Continue on the next page:
