I sat with a woman; while awake, she couldn’t seem to talk.  I asked how she was, if she had pain but the best I could hear was a muddled reply.  Maybe she had a stroke; maybe she was confused from her illness or the side effects of the meds.   She moved her hand slightly to touch mine.  Holding each other’s hand, we talked for a long time in that silent language of touch.  Mychal Judge would be pleased.


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