By: Carl “Papa” Palmer

The first thing I notice every time I come to visit is the familiar aroma of this hallway smelling as if the same lavender laundry soap is used in every assisted living facility in Tacoma.

I open the door to Room 213 halfway, knock twice and ask loudly, “Connie, its Carl, are you decent?”
She answers as always, “Define decent,” her voice today quiet and frail sitting in her red recliner by the window, sunlight halos through lace curtains, glowing soft gold on the khaki quilt spread across her lap.
“I come bearing gifts,” handing her the tin foil covered paper plate.

Her fingers, feeble with time, help me uncover the strawberry cake, my wife’s specialty, “Oh boy, another one of that nice lady’s goodies.”

“It’s from Judy”, I reply, “and she also sends along this big hug.”

“You’re our best friend, Connie and we love you.”

I help her take a bite.

“I remember strawberries,” she muses. “They taste like Grandma’s garden.”

A breeze lifts the curtain. Connie’s gaze, distant now, follows it as if someone just outside the window is calling her name.