I meet a woman named M on Friday nights.

M is dying.

Her heart is failing her. She is mostly bed-ridden but she can still take drinks on her own. I am not on mouth-swab duty yet. She does need chapstick yet.

Her room is filled with quilts, crosses and twinkle lights. Her oxygen machine sounds a lot like the white-noise setting my ex used to sleep at night.

She likes to talk what she thinks heaven is going to be like and that gay people are the reason for the approaching rapture.

My job is to make sure she’s…

Kayla Dugger

a list-making nightmare.

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