Unfinished

Mary sat at the bedside, book in hand, listening to the sounds of machines counting down a life.  She hadn't read a word of the book, but it helped her feel like she wasn't waiting for something else to happen.  But she was waiting for something else to happen, and she hated herself for it.

"There's a good dear," said the nurse, lifting the old, frail version of her mother forward, gently wiping her back with a sponge.  The water smelled of lavender.  It was horrid.  "Thank you, dear," said...