At first, I was uncomfortable.
What could a man who had barely figured out his own life possibly say to someone preparing to leave theirs?
I quickly learned that most people didn’t need speeches.
They needed company.
Some wanted to talk about their grandchildren. Others wanted to complain about the food. A few wanted to talk about death, and some wanted to pretend it wasn’t waiting outside the door.
Eleanor belonged to the last group.
I first saw her sitting beside a window, wearing a purple cardigan and arguing with a nurse about a crossword puzzle.
“That is not a five-letter word for a bird,” she declared.
The nurse folded her arms. “The answer is crane.”
“A crane is a machine or a bird. That clue says something that flies south for winter.”
“Some cranes migrate.”
Eleanor looked personally offended.
“Then the crossword writer should have made that clear.”
I laughed.
