Death Minus Hours Ulf Wolf

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18 pages


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Death Minus Hours  by  Ulf Wolf

Death Minus Hours by Ulf Wolf
| Kindle Edition | PDF, EPUB, FB2, DjVu, audiobook, mp3, RTF | 18 pages | ISBN: | 6.32 Mb

His father has been in jail for twenty years. The last few of those on death row. Tomorrow is his execution and he has finally agreed to see his son. This is their conversation.::The day before his execution, I saw my dad for the next to last time.IMoreHis father has been in jail for twenty years.

The last few of those on death row. Tomorrow is his execution and he has finally agreed to see his son. This is their conversation.::The day before his execution, I saw my dad for the next to last time.I don’t remember him his thin, nor this unshaven. In fact, I can’t for the life of me remember him unshaven. Ever. Yet, here in his cell, with only a day to go—less than a day, now, more like twenty hours (not even that) till the blessed event, as he liked to call it—the gray stubble was probably a week old.It had been a while.

For months he had refused all visitors, and not even the Warden, apparently, could overrule that. But now, Death banging on the door as it were, he had finally conceded. To see me. But that’s where he drew the line. Only me. No Frannie. No mom. Absolutely no mom.So here I was. Sitting next to him on his narrow death-row cot.The cinderblocked walls of the cell were not exactly white. My guess is that they had been white at one point, but that too much cleaning down the condemned year had worn off much of the paint to reveal the gray of the cinder beneath.

Somewhere between white and gray, like an impure white. Couldn’t put my finger on it, not that I tried very hard. But that’s what I was looking at waiting for him to say something, waiting for him to look at me.But he wouldn’t. Look at me. Look up at me. Would not look me in the eye. He’d glance, though, now and then, at my knees, as if to assure himself I was still there and still prepared to listen to what he had to say.

Finding me still there, he’d continue the nervous rub of his misshapen left thumb, which lacked its nail—something that had always fascinated me. Growing up I’d asking him about it. Sometimes he’d say it was a boating accident, other times he’d say nothing.

Beyond that he’d never elaborate, no matter how much I pleaded.He never had no boat.



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