A flash fiction piece about returning home from the hospice after my father passed away.

129 minutes ago, fathers last breath came. Seeking the comfort of my chair. Familiar stains and memories, cushions sculpted to hold only me. My eyes widened surveying the chaotic scene.  Dog hair and dust mites dance in the air mocking me. My comfortable chair abandoned, undignified face down on the dirty floor amid ancient crumbs and debris. My husband stutters excuses and apologies I cannot hear over the tsunami of blood storming in my ears. Velcro straps scream as he attempts to fix it. My clammy hand forcing back bile and stale hospice coffee. Nothing will ever be right again.