"I'm the Chaplain.""You don't look like a Chaplain."
"Thanks."
"I don't care about that stuff," she snarls. "I ain't religious. Church is a mean place that ain't never done good for me. I don't want it. I don't want you."
"That cool," I shrug.
It's important to know what you don't want in life so you can back into what you do want ... everyone's got their own way doing things.
She's old and dying ... bitter and angry about it ... full of regrets ... pissed at God and everybody else ... loving daily cocktails of morphine and Vodka.
"Well," I say standing to leave, "you sure you don't want me to pray with you? It's free?"
"Ain't nothing free," she snaps.
"This is. The Government's paying for it."
"What?" she asks sitting up in her chair and lighting another cigarette.
"Medicaid," I answer. "It's part of the package. But if you don't want it ..."
"No," she snaps. "I want everything I can get."
"You sure?"
"You damn right I do."
So we pray.
