Suddenly frantic, I found myself tearing off the blue
rubber gloves, incensed at the futility of being gowned and gloved, and your death staring me
straight in the eyes regardless. I was damned if the last touch you were going
to feel on your brow would be a synthetically clad hand. I could at least
smooth your hair back with my actual skin, warm - hopefully soothing; I knew I
was doing it as much for me as for you but it seemed so important then.
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