Hospice

The old woman points to the box and I oblige, wondering if we have anything to talk about.

She takes a tissue and lays the box upon a fold in the blanket just below her breasts.

She says she goes through so many boxes. She says they should buy in bulk. But, that’s not, she says, really her business.

The television flashes behind me. A basketball game. Muted. Vague movement in maroon and white flitter and dance, reflect in my glasses’ lens.

She coughs and spits into the tissue.

She asks why I come and I go through the story. The same story seems to never grow old. Talking about myself, I’ve found, is easy. Up to a point.

Louis should be here soon, she says.

Louis, I gather, is her son.

I say the flowers by the window are beautiful. Pink. Yes, she says, they are.

I point out the pictures tapped to the wall above her bed. Young, smiling people mostly. Grandchildren or great-grandchildren. I don’t ask.

She looks toward the pictures, but says nothing about them.

Beautiful day, I say, looking out the window into the courtyard beyond. A short, middle-aged woman in pink, loose-fitting pants and a white, collared shirt is pacing in a small circle talking on a cell phone.

Yes, she says, it is.

Do you need anything, I ask.

No, we’re doing alright, she says.

That’s good, I say. Good.

A commercial on television now. A young family enjoying themselves at a theme park. They all laugh and point as dad gets splashed with water.

She’s still holding the used tissue, so I offer and she hands it over. I look around for a trashcan to toss it in.

Voices from the hall seep into the room. Female. A friendly argument over which singer was the best the other night. That one’s cute, but that other one sure could sing, couldn’t he? Yes, it’s agreed. I wonder if it bothers the families to hear this kind of easy talk. I’ve never noticed it trouble the patients. Ordinariness, I think, can be comforting. Also, difficulty hearing is common.

Louis is coming soon, she says.

I should go on now, I say. Is there anything I can do before I go? Would you like me to turn the sound back on the television?

Oh, no, she says. We’re fine. We’re doing fine.

Okay, I say as I rise, lift the chair, and carry it back to the small table where I’d found it.

Thank you for visiting with me, I say, and turn toward the door.

Thank you, she calls. Thank you. Come back again.

Okay, I say. I’ll try. I usually come on Sundays.

I stop at the dispenser for a pump of sanitizer and, rubbing my hands together, walk into the hall.