Is It Too Late To Cower?

Imogene Scott

I narrow my eyes and hope the nurse recognizes how

inappropriate it is that she’s saying this to me in a gossip-py way right now. She doesn’t.

“They say he brought this upon himself by…”

I cut her short. “I’ll go in now.” I say rudely.

As I step into the hospital room, the first thing that strikes me is the overwhelming sterility of the space. The lighting is dim, but it still catches on the white sheets, giving the room an unsettling glow.

My eyes land on my father, lying motionless in the bed. His once strong and commanding presence reduced to this fragile, weakened state. It’s jarring, to see him like this. A faint beep from the heart monitor punctuates the silence.

I walk toward the bed, my footsteps muted on the linoleum floor. The chair beside him creaks slightly as I sit down, and I can’t help but feel a pang of worry. His face is pale, almost ashen, and the deep lines etched into his skin seem more pronounced than ever before. His chest rises and falls wi