and warm. I sat in my clerical suit at
the kitchen table—my green Pastoral
Care of the Sick book set next to the
holy oils and my white stole before
me—while she gathered her mother
from the bedroom, settled her in the
recliner, arranged her veined hands
on her lap. “She’d like to talk to you
alone,” she said and left the room.
I used the few moments necessary to move a chair across the room
to gather myself. “I’m glad you’re
here,” she said, moving her head to
look at me as I put on the stole. Her
voice was thin and clear, more air
than words, but she wanted something and knew what it was. “Me
too,” I replied. She looked down
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