Peace at Last, fiction by Richard Cass
T he night my father finally died, my mother and Janice and I were eating Greek food at one of the round Formica tables in the function room of the care facility, which was little used. People who came to the skilled nursing section didn’t stay long. They either healed or died. And either way, they were not in a mood to socialize. My mother was struggling with her pita pocket sandwich. The dressing and the moisture from the vegetables had softened the bread until it split and spilled the contents onto the waxed paper wrapping. She threw the mess down on the table and held her yogurt-smeared hands up in the air. “ Won’t someone help me?” I grabbed a handful of napkins and knelt next to her wheelchair. “ I’m sorry, Tommy. I can’t seem to hold it together.” I wiped her gnarled hands clean, the cheap paper napkins shredding and shedding bits on the floor like snow. “ We never wanted to be a burden to you, you know,” she said. Which was why, I supposed, they left the family in New Yo...
