And then I do what I’ve started to do on my visits to my grandmother. I sing
Her Native American aide, Ortins, is there. I’m glad it’s an Ortins day — she is quiet and does her job with dignity and respect.
I head over to the recliner, where Bobby is resting. She’s wearing a new dark blue velour bandana and a green cotton floral snap-down housecoat that’s three sizes too big. Her eyes are open but vacant: empty, still and glasslike.
“Bobby,” I say. I wait. “Bobby,” I try again. Not a twitch, not a movement, nothing that indicates that she hears a grandchild. I know conversation is useless. I’m not one to chitchat or offer high-pitched, one-sided chatter.
I take Bobby’s hands. Her skin is tissue-paper thin and translucent, but her arm feels heavy. I squeeze. No response. I’m quiet.
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