Quoth the Raven
In November of 2014, my maternal grandfather Max was 96 and dying of old age in hospice. He was unconscious, thin, with his face contorted and his mouth open. The family was gathered around him for his last week. Taken off of liquids and nourishment, we didn't know how long he would have. Perhaps days, no longer than a week. I flew up from North Carolina to visit him for a day. In his room, the family gathered. My grandmother, also 96, cried and moaned and repeated stories of Max endlessly. She was constantly anxious and beside herself. We had about an hour or two with him. Before the family left that day, I knew it would be the last time I could see him. I asked for some time. My family left the room. I had about ten minutes. I began speaking to him and prayed. I sang the Sh'ma and other prayers. I said it aloud and I said it under my breath, and I said it silently. As I was doing this, I put my hands on him. On his arm, on his chest as I prayed. I don't know if he heard ...