She sits lonely in her wheelchair by the window; broken leg propped up, whole leg dangling down ̶ the one who shares her birthday with my granddaughter.
Lungs inhale the lifeless scent of age, deep. Lips force a smile for the sake of one whose robust life once brimmed full with joy. Her eyes meet familiar faces and she brightens ̶ invites us to sit down and share life.
Share life? Life when death is so close? How do you share life with one who's nearly done living?
She cheerfully rambles about doctor reports, kind nurses, and thirty-year-old (sometimes older) memories. I listen and place clean clothes in drawers, throw out worn stockings, shoes, and slippers.
(Still got your slippers on? Why not scuffle over to Encouragement Cafe with me this morning where I tell the whole story? See you there!)