Mister Vernon died last night. He went easy. You never met him, but you knew him. He was every white-haired man you’ve ever seen. He spoke with a drawl. He talked about the old days. He was opinionated. He was American. Lonely.
Miss Charyl, his caregiver, did CPR. She compressed his chest so hard his sternum cracked. She was sobbing when the EMT’s took him. Caregiving is Charyl’s second job. She’s been working nights at Mister Vernon’s for a while. She arrived at his mobile-home one sunny day. Mister Vernon was fussy, cranky. A twenty-four carat heart.
She listened to his stories—since nobody else would. He had millions . . . . Read More