As I stand in the doorway of your hospital room, arms full of admission assessment forms, light from the high window striates your face and shines on the metal side rails of your bed. Your face is sunken, all eyes; your chest heaves in spasmodic jerks. Heart disease, dementia, old age. I can't believe you're the same lady who used to cheat my grandmother at cards.
I never understood why you cheated. Gran was so distracted by my failing grandfather, you could've beaten her fair and square. I remember the day the two of you were playing canasta on the back porch while Grandpa slouched in his wheelchair nearby. I was in the yard, squatting near the porch stairs, waiting for Gran to play her hand so I could crawl under the porch and drag out the garden hose to wet down my sandbox, a practice Gran forbade. The time