Crayons spread across the bedside table in her room. She's had recent surgery but I don't know her name. Is she mom's age? I clip on my nursing home volunteer badge. Would she like a visitor?
She's coloring – a big red Christmas bow in process on the page, each stroke deep. "I'm going to hang it over there," she points.
My kindergarten voice, "That's so nice." Her eyes motion, a stack of drawings on the chair. "Can I see them?"
I sort through her papers – candy canes, baskets, a snowman, a single sketchbook at the bottom. "It's okay," she tells me. "Open it."
Black and whites – I run my fingers along each page slowly, then stop. This drawing – a house blanketed by snow, pleats laced and pulled back into loops, a wreath in the middle of each. A front walk, shoveled, leading my eyes to the door knob. Along the way, pencil surrounded by Crayola hues, circles one by one on either side of the bell.
sitting in mom's rocker
this year's Christmas lights
blinking
this year's Christmas lights
blinking
by Tish Davis
Dublin, Ohio
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