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The Slow Leave Taking: On Watching My Mother Slip Away
by Nancy RommelmannI’d like to introduce you to my mother. Not the woman I am sitting one foot away from in a Connecticut hospital bed, the skin on her hands as fragile as phyllo dough, the veins showing livid purple and the blue-green of old tattoos. Though it is true, her hands have always been this way.“You have such beautiful big veins,” I recall six-year-old Karen telling my mother. Maybe it was during one of the weekends Karen’s mother and my mother, not yet 33, drove a carful of kids out to Westhampton, to an out-of-rental-season house along the beach road. The house had many wooden…
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