Mom washed, curled, brushed and hairsprayed. Then she applied makeup and lipstick. For the first time in weeks, she looks like she always does when she goes out in public.

She loses her breath rising from one chair and moving to another, despite the pulse-births of oxygen from her portable machine.

We all sit down to a meal of barbequed chicken and ribs, filet mignon, yellow rice and fries, hot dogs. She eats one piece of chicken, half of a hot dog and less than a cup of rice and fries. All of which she washes down with two glasses of Chianti.

But she thanks us. And she and I enjoy one of our good, quiet conversations. Both conveniently ignore the question.

Is this her last?

periwinkles
surrounding the maple tree
her empty glass

more by FRANK J. TASSONE

photo by Paul Paul