I pulled into the nursing home lot on the last day of December. The week between Christmas and New Year always feels like a held breath.
I had a single poinsettia for Mrs. Vargas on the third floor. Her family never visits.
The east wing was closed off. Fourteen empty beds behind the glass doors, all made up, untouched since before Thanksgiving.
I opened my wallet to pay the delivery fee and saw my daughter's school photo, cropped with scissors to fit. I'd cut off her father's arm but left his hand on her shoulder.
I don't know why I kept that hand.
Mrs. Vargas was asleep. I left the flower on her tray and walked past the empty wing again.
I thought about how many rooms we keep closed, even inside ourselves. The quietest battles don't ask for visitors.
That week I let myself stand still for a moment. Just stood there, looking at the empty beds.