That Arab Spring
I return to Mom, asking, “How was she?”
“Who?”
I motion toward the door. “Lynn.”
“Is that her name?”
“Lynn from Hospice.”
Looking up at me with surprise, as if I haven’t been paying attention, she says, “She’s wonderful.”
*
It is my last Tuesday out of the house, my time is up, I must fly back, and only one of the cigar smokers is there on the balcony. This Tuesday is extra cold, and when he slowly peels the cellophane off his cigar, crushing it into a table ashtray that is not meant for cellophane, the crushed plastic immediately begins to open, uncrush. This third and final Tuesday is not the same as the other two, and even the smoker can sense it. His heart isn’t in smoking a cigar. Looking down at Main Street, I see two blonde women walking arm and arm next to the Round Tent Café. They stop to look at something in the window, pointing, even rubbing the glass. They move on until they come to the old used-to-be Empire Theatre. There is more window pointing, but this time when they walk their mouths are wide and black, laughing. All this feels wrong. What’s so funny?
As I leave, I stop at the counter to say their coffee is not very hot, never has been. The man is old enough to be somebody’s grandfather, and when I say this he looks down at the countertop and pulls at his earlobe. “Really?”
“Yes.”
He sighs. “I can give you another coffee. Something hotter, as hot as you like.” And he reaches for an empty coffee mug.
“No, I’m leaving now, but I just thought you should know.”
Moving his hand to stroke his chin. “Right. Next time. I’ll remember.”
“No, I won’t be back.”
For the first time he looks directly at me, and his sorrow is clear. Now it is my turn to look down.
When I get back, my sister meets me at the door.
“Dr. Keyes was just here.”
“Yes?”
“He says it won’t be long now.”
I nod. “I have to leave.”
“I know.”
“It’s been three weeks, and I have to return.”
“I know. We all know. It’s alright.”