Blood seeps beneath the skin of my brother-in-law’s hand. Rosary beads drip from his fingers. His eyes are closed and his head rests on a pillow.
            The two of us are trudging through the Sorrowful Mysteries. I recite the prayers. He whispers Holy Mary, Holy Mary.
            It is evening and the corridor outside his room is quiet. My mind wanders. I glance at his face and see vestiges of his once chiseled features. I recall the way his arm dangled out the window of a snazzy pink Pontiac. Sunglasses. Crew cut. I catch a drift of Aqua Velva aftershave. The beads pull back to the crowning with thorns. 
            Deliver us from the fires of Hell. Lead all souls to Heaven.
            He struggles to breathe.  
            Three more decades. 
Following the Hail, Holy Queen, I place his rosary on the tray table. Before leaving, I rest my hand on his brow and trace the Sign of the Cross. Having traveled some distance to visit him, the family insists that I spend the night at his house. 
            The code for the door has not changed since my last visit. I step inside. The kitchen is clean, though a bit cluttered. In the living room, ceramic birds perch on a mantle. An exercise bike leans against the patio door. Nearby, a large-screen TV shares table space with a photograph of my sister who died from Parkinson’s disease a few years ago.   
            “We attend Mass together,” my brother-in-law once told me, nodding toward the screen and her picture. “She prays for me.”
            My sister’s recliner remains angled in the corner of the room. Its upholstery is worn and the seat cushion sags. Memories, like angels gather about the vacant chair.
            The effects of Parkinson’s never diminished my sister’s smile or the joy in her eyes. The warmth of her nature accompanied me throughout my life. A teenager when I was born, she helped my parents raise me…in house, barn, field and garden. I remember her baking pies and canning peaches. She peddled a lady-wheel bike and bobbed her hair. Her prom dress featured an embroidered poodle. She sang while washing dishes: “He’s got the whole world—the whole wide world—in His hands!”
            I lower my gaze to the armrest where her hand rested the last time that I visited her. Bent and trembling, the Parkinson’s had curved it into the shape of a claw.
            On the table next to the chair, a brass crucifix.
            They pierced my hands and feet. 
            Floating in the silence, the echo of her shy request: “Hold my hand.”
            I hesitate.
            “Please?”
            I declined. 
            They numbered all my bones.
            I politely declined. 
            Shame descends and fills my soul.
            Mary, refuge for sinners, pray for me!