I brushed her hair first.
We had time before transport came — the kind of time that moves like thick syrup.
So I helped her change her bra, pulled her soft shirt over arms that didn’t quite bend the way they used to.
Helped her into clean underwear.
Said nothing when she wouldn’t meet my eyes.
Some griefs are too small to name.
Some are too big.
This was both.
She was mad about the socks.
The hospital ones. Green. Grippy.
She called them ugly and told me to bring her shoes to the rehab facility.
“And real pants,” she added. “I’m tired of gowns.”
I promised.
I wrote a list on the back of an envelope.
I packed it all.
Her Kindle.
Reading glasses.
The good shampoo.
The folder with her siblings’ cards tucked inside.
The small picture of her mom.
The book I bought her for her birthday that she hasn’t started yet.
And the flowers.
So many flowers.
From old coworkers.
From cousins I barely know.
From her friend who always sends too much, because she lost her mom last year and still doesn’t know how to stop grieving.
They wouldn’t fit in the new room.
Rehab is shared.
No room for blooms.
So I took them.
One vase. Two. Three.
I walked down the hallway with an armful of petals, pretending they weren’t saying goodbye.
The nurses gave me a bag for her things.
Gave me her discharge packet.
Gave me a coffee fixed just how I like it.
That’s when I knew I’d been there too long.
They loaded her into the ambulance without asking if I wanted to ride along.
Policy.
I didn’t argue.
Dad had a doctor’s appointment.
I’d meet her at the facility.
By the time I got there, Dad had already arrived.
He was confused about the parking.
Frustrated with the signage.
I hugged him anyway.
We got her settled in.
Met the doctor.
Met the social worker.
Learned about the care plan.
Got the phone number for the nurse’s station.
I made notes.
Made her bed.
Made her laugh, once.
And then we left.
I left her shoes at the foot of the bed.
And her mom’s picture by the window.
And her new book on the tray. I took the flowers home.
They were never going to fit anyway.
