I’d rather not write about you, because writing about you means you’re somewhere else. I’d rather not write in the second person, as if the ‘you' (you) were right here instead of at Mt. Auburn Hospital in your pajamas.

You have everything you need over there—a word puzzle book, a cell phone you can almost use, and the box of almond biscotti I brought over from Lyndell’s bakery. Don’t let anyone say I didn’t ask if you were on a special hospital diet, if I shouldn’t bring the biscotti. I stood between you and the counter, dunking the biscotto in the coffee and passing it to you for a coffee-soaked bite, then back to me for another dunk, another bite, another biscotto. The coffee wasn’t great, but since both the café and the cafeteria were closed, Auntie and I bought paper cups of lightened coffee from the hot drink vending machine downstairs. On the way back to the seventh floor I wondered what the doctors and nurses did for coffee after 7:00 if they didn’t have change for the vending machine, since I think every person on staff at the hospital should be alert and ready to respond to you at any hour of the day or night. I know it’s absurd, but it makes it slightly more okay that after two hours we are kissing you on the cheek because you are drifting into sleep, hours earlier than your usual bedtime on account of the IV drip and the pills you keep track of on a notecard in your wallet. Auntie and I leave the room first, so Grandma can say goodbye to you, and I gather a bag of things to spend the night in the guest room, so Grandma won’t be alone.

Don’t worry about the house. I checked to see that the back door is locked (usually your job), and after a dish of bright green mint ice cream Grandma and I dozed in the comfy chairs that you hate because they’re so hard to get up from once you sink into the cushions. You’re a straight-backed chair man, but I noticed Auntie had information on lift chairs, the ones you say are “for the handicapped.” I understand why you are willing to hang a blue placard from your rearview mirror so you can limp or shuffle or drag your sick foot from a decent parking spot, even though that, too, is for the handicapped.

• • •

You looked old last week, and I cried. You used a cane to walk from your bathroom to the kitchen, wearing an undershirt (no crisp button-down), khakis (no tailored dress pants), and black socks (no leather oxfords specially ordered for the long, narrow shape of your foot). I think your zipper was down, but I looked away so quickly that I can’t be sure. You held the edge of the table and fell into the straight-backed kitchen chair, letting the cane fall next to you.

After a few confusing hands of the card game you taught me when I was in grade school, you tried to scoot closer to the table for dinner. Several attempts failed until finally you pushed down on the table with both hands while I lifted you up under your arms and Grandma pushed in the chair. You made a joke; we must have laughed, and then we ate.