Transcription: Stroke at 87. He wakes and calls Mama. Mama, shut that water off. It's going to wash the wall away. It is the curtain flooded with sunlight. I find him falling on the bedroom floor. His fingers scrape at a knot in the hardwood. He explains, my pocket knife won't come up. I set him in the tub and come back to check. He scrubs angrily at shadows on his skin, shadows entrenched in wrinkles, shadows molded to knobby bones. They let me get so dirty in that hospital, this black film won't come off. I lift him from the couch and carry him to bed, edging sideways through the hall and in the bedroom do ...