When I walked into the lobby, there was an old man inching his way to the front door using a wheelchair and his tippy toes. One of the nurses dryly asked him where he was going as he responded with a smile that I imagined he had smiled countless times before.

Once in her room, I noticed the Chandelier was connected thoughtlessly to the ceiling in two places and the cord hung in a very annoying way across one of the bulbs.

She would not stop asking where her family was. I did not know her family or where they were. I did know that my mother was taking care of her. She was lying in a bed that made her legs look nonexistent. I knew that she now primarily lived in that bed. I knew that we had never met before but that she was excited to see me. I knew that she could not use the restroom on her own. I knew that she could not and would not leave this place. I knew that she was my age 72 years ago.

I was listening to her stories. Stories of wasp’s nests in the fireplace that had to be burnt out once a year- sometimes more. Stories of soaking her husband’s foot so she could trim the ingrown big toenail. Descriptions of the texture of carpet in the playroom and its consistency to the top of the pole table. Stories of when she was an ER nurse and how she has seen a foot in a Ziploc bag. Stories explaining the process and ritual of her husband separating a gallon of Kimchi into four smaller containers. Confusing accounts of the alligators in her back yard. Stories of how she still has three baby teeth and so does her granddaughter. Stories of the countless plants she owned and the different strategies of keeping them alive.

She scattered the details of her favorite painting of candle sticks and how no matter how dark the room was you could always see the flames.

We both knew that she was going to pass soon but neither of us knew where her family was.

I wanted to ask her why some people lived to 92 and others to 24.

I never caught her name.