My mother reached out to steady herself against the wall of soup. Her fingertips brushed against a Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom, knocking it askew in a otherwise undisturbed column of cans.
Six-AM sunlight streamed through the windows of the hospital waiting room, stretching polygonal sheets of light across vinyl couches, coffee tables, and armchairs.
Simeon may have been the only other living man in a world of ghosts, but he was still a son of a bitch.
I remember a blue light in a white room. A high ceiling bisected by a dark wooden beam. A smell, perhaps, like the inside of a vacuum cleaner bag.