The Picture
THE room is filled with elderly women sitting in two rows of chairs facing one another. Silver and gold foil garlands are strung haphazardly in each corner.
A cover version of I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas plays loudly from speakers hung on the wall. The ward stinks like the toilets down at the park. I try not to make it obvious that I’m wrinkling my nose as the smell attaches itself to my nostrils and stays there.
She sits by the window, in a rocking chair. She doesn’t flinch as we approach.
“Hello Mom,” Dad says. “How’re you doing?”
My own mom kisses her cheek and tells me to do the same. I reluctantly lean over and place a butterfly kiss on her wrinkled cheek. She doesn’t smell like Nana. Her usual floral perfume-mixed-with-cigarette-smoke smell has gone. She doesn’t respond. She continues staring straight
