Chapter 11
When I saw my father last month, his skin was pulled tight against the bony structure of his face. Gaunt, sunken eyes, like dark holes in the earth. His mouth was shaped straight as a knife, lips parched, cracked, and flaky.
His skin was fleshy, almost translucent; his hands felt spongy from retaining fluid from the drugs pumping through his veins.
I had spent days massaging his legs with lotion, the skin springy like on his hands, the indentations of my fingertips white on the surface.
The bottoms of his feet were bruised, eggplant purple, a combination from lying in bed, immobile, unable to exercise, and the progression of the disease.
What was left of his hair clung to pillowcases and bed sheets. I watched him, day and night, not straying too far from his side. Hurt dark
