The rehab wing closed last spring. Thirty-one years of patients, and now just silence and dusty linoleum.
I went back to clear out my old office. In a drawer, under some expired files, a program from my nephew's fifth-grade play. He's thirty-seven now.
I remembered my ex's mother, Mrs. Kowalski. She was my last patient in that wing. Her hip and her pride both broken.
Every visit she'd ask about my son's play. I'd tell her he was playing the mayor. She'd laugh and say she remembered that role from her own daughter's school days.
I never thought to bring her a program. I was too busy rushing from room to room, counting minutes, not moments.
Now the wing is empty. The walkers and the voices are gone. So is my son's childhood. So is Mrs. Kowalski.
If I could go back, I'd tell my younger self: stop. Sit down. Hand her the program. The work will always be there, but that moment won't.
Thirty-one years. That's how long that wing lasted. Long enough to learn nothing stays.