Ashley Mccullough

A woman I had been nodding at for almost a year at my mother's assisted living facility sat down at my table in the visitors' lounge last October. She said: I can't do another Sunday in this room by myself. Is it alright if I sit at your table? I said yes. Two hours later, when she stood up to leave, she had said one sentence to me that has been with me every day since. I am writing this letter because I had been carrying two people quietly for the eighteen months before that Sunday. My eighty-six-year-old mother, in her assisted living room forty minutes from my house. And my sixty-seven-year

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