The gravel road to Mrs. Gable's house is three miles long. Every pothole is tattooed into my spine.
In her bedside table I found a name tent card from a conference. 'Dr. Helen M. – Physical Therapist.' She'd saved it from her daughter's graduation.
One afternoon, Mrs. Gable was slipping in and out. A woman I'd never seen came in and sat down in the chair next to me.
She didn't say a word. Just folded her hands and waited. I thought she was a relative. She wasn't.
She was someone who knew what it meant to sit with the dying. She stayed an hour, then left as quiet as she came. I never learned her name.
My twin sister took the state job in the city. She calls me from her office with central air. I tell her about the dust, the quiet.
She thinks I took the harder road. Maybe I did. But I also took the road where strangers sit down beside you and remind you you're not alone.