By Emily Fitzgerald
We slipped into the room, Dad and I, shading our eyes from a bright crack of sunlight, which had managed to cut through the heavy drapes. She was sat, hunched, her legs all bone.
Dad stepped forward. “Mum?”
Silence, then the faintest of murmurs: “Son.”
A rare moment of lucidity.
We carved our way around the carpet. Her chin had sunk into her chest, but her eyes whirled up to meet mine, and then Dad’s. She smiled, her lips parting knolls of ancient skin.
Dad reached down, took her supine hand, and a glimmer of the sun flickered in her eyes.
Quite touching. Lived it a lot.
Oops! Typo. Last line should be “Liked it a lot.”
So moving.