The soap bubbles sliding over my father’s brass signet ring did not hide the deep notch where the jeweler had cut it from his hand. I used an old soft-bristled toothbrush to scrub the engraved initials, trying to ignore my sister Martha as she cleared her throat at the kitchen table.
“He only got the diagnosis ten days ago, Clara,” Martha said, her tea mug clinking against the Formica.
I turned the tap on, letting the warm water rinse away the gray film of tarnish. “The doctors at St. Jude said the mass is aggressive.”
Martha checked her wristwatch, her thumb tracing the leather band. “People live for years with these things, or they don’t, but they do not usually ask for your power of attorney before the first round of chemotherapy.”
