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Marie ran the warm washcloth down her mother’s rigid arm. The tremors were worse today, she noted as she washed the soap from her mother’s skin. The washcloth moved down to the tips of the woman’s fingers, and Marie noted for the millionth time that her mother still had slim, shapely fingers.
She dipped the cloth in the pink, plastic basin that had come from… somewhere. The hospital on her mother’s last visit, that was where they got it, she remembered now. She brushed black, silky strands of her hair from her naturally tan face with the back of her hand and looked away from her mother. It was too hot to work like this,
