Words my mother permitted me to say in childhood:
Damn.
Shit.
Fuck.
Piss.
Hell.
Words my mother did not permit me to say in childhood:
Snot.
The last words of my father’s favorite joke:
Oh, shit. I stepped in the dog doo-doo.
The first words of my father’s favorite poem:
It was Saturday evening,
The guests were all leaving,
O’Malley was closing the bar,
When he turned and he said
To the lady in red,
“Get out; you can’t stay where you are.”
The last words my mother ever spoke:
Thank you.
The last words my father ever spoke:
Stop it.
The words I spoke in the rooms where my parents were dying:
I love you.
It’s OK.
Don’t worry.
It’s OK.
I love you.
The words I couldn’t say in the rooms where my parents were dying:
Damn. Shit. Fuck. Piss. Oh, hell.