Kealan Patrick Burke
Copyright 2011 by Kealan Patrick Burke
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I began to be forgotten on a dawn no different than any other I'd seen during the past few years of my incarceration at Spring Grace Retirement Home. The ever-present burning ache in my bones was no better or worse. The sheets were still too tight, the pillow too lumpy, the room a little too cold. Shadows squatted in the corners where they had no business squatting, but like silent drunks, were too harmless to justify ousting. Pins and needles made hornet-filled trees of my legs. The radiator gave its little metallic tick-tick-tack, and belched liquidly. Even the light, splintered by the Venetian blinds to form horizontal bars of cold fire on the puke-green wall, looked the same.