Recently, I entered a 91-word memoir contest. I didn’t win. Following is my entry:

Valentine’s Day

It was early in the morning on Valentine’s Day. The night nurse stood at the door of my childhood bedroom. “He’s gone,” she said. I followed her downstairs to what used to be my parents’ room. The overhead light was on. My husband’s eyes were open, as was his mouth. I touched his still-warm arm. His two-year struggle was over. I would make no more trips to the convenience store for Mountain Dew and cigarettes. A half-empty pack sat on the dresser, a few feet from the oxygen machine.