I feared touching the chunky plastic of the shower chair, but I did; how I’d wrestled with that damn thing, how often it had had me in tears. I could still see my husband’s thinned body on it, his deflated muscles, the paper thin of his ass cheeks, his slackened face, smile gone into lines, lines pulled. But without that chair, all would have been harder. The chair had allowed him to lie back, to sink into it, and have those times of some pleasure-of-sorts. Moments of something that looked like peace. As I said goodbye to these pieces, I attempted to imbue them or bless them or... there was no
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