One More Night

Violet James
Aug 31, 2018 · 6 min read

The chair creaked as I leaned forward. I stroked my father’s hands as they laid on his chest in the hospital bed. His skin was softer than I’d remembered — like a thin swath of vellum, covering the hint of blue from his veins, a ravaged road map of his soul. His fingers were long and lean. A pianist’s hands, but he never played piano. These were the hands that cradled me when I was afraid of the dark, crouched in a ball on his lap while he whispered in my ear…

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