Hospice nurse Chelsea conducted her weekly visit with precision timing, arriving as Dad sat uncharacteristically pale and panting and nauseated. The e-kit furnished a dose of promethazine, and he stretched out in his recliner, covered in a fleece throw, and settled in for a long sleep.  I left work early so I could be nearby, in my home office, should he need help, should he collapse.  My hair was too long, about a quarter-inch, so I clipped on the No. 1 comb and set about my buzz.  But the chord caught on the countertop and tore the clippers from my hand, and they bounced hard on the toilet lid and into the (dry) enamel bathtub.  I cursed.  Sliding the switch, the normally buzzing clippers sounded like a chainsaw, and I was afraid to put the thing to my head.  Instead, I cursed again and yanked the plug and threw the clippers disgustedly into the garbage can, combs and chord and all.  During dinner, Mom asked me to help Dad organize his tax papers, then started to cry.  “I’m worried about your father,” she choked.  His undiagnosed spells have returned despite the historically-and-mysteriously-effective regimen of gabapentin, and the hospice doctor authorized a significant dosage increase.  Which should help.  Mom and Dad still have their portraits of Sarah lying flat, print-side down.  I don’t blame them.  I have two framed 8×10 prints on my desks at work and at home.  Sometimes I can look at them, appreciate her smile, see her eyes look into mine from every angle, and sometimes I cannot look at them.  The prints seem decidedly too large, almost life-size.  Sometimes I demand of her: “God damn it, Sarah!  Why did you have to go?”  Sometimes I ask her to help me sort things out.  Mostly I look into her eyes, soak up her smile, admire the attractive tilt of her head, and remind myself that she loved me and called me “dearest brother.”

Pictured above: one of dozens of a variety of potted plants sent by caring friends in our grief, this one by Solange and Ana.