The month following her accident we went to visit her. The pristine, callous walls of the nursing home eschewed me in every way. The hallways reeked of lemon disinfectant and sickness. Wheelchairs were stationed around every corner, waiting to take their next victim on a journey throughout the castle of forgotten aspirations and sapped energy. When I bent down to tie my shoe, it was no surprise to me that the floors were also a polished ivory hue. 

     Presumably, the designer thought white signified life and it would seep down into the pores of the patients to revitalize their souls. However, he had forgotten to take into account that in numerous foreign kingdoms, white is worn to funerals. Or, maybe he didn't.

   The wooden door at the end of the hall seemed to tower over my 10-year-old self. I had no knowledge of wood or of how doors were created; the only things I understood at the time were the fictional creatures I had learned of in books. To me, the large structure was the dragon who was sequestering me from my helpless monarch. The soniferous beast bellowed when I shoved it out of the way. As a child, I was always terrified of the creatures which were seemingly hidden in the shadowy recesses of my home and croaked as I crept. 

   She laid perfectly still as I inched gently towards her bed. The wine-colored blanket draped limply across her gaunt frame. Picture frames sat scattered atop her dresser depicting various scenes from throughout her enduring lifetime. The smiling, plastic sun I made years ago dangled from a small suction cup on her windowpane. When I visited last summer, it grasped parts of the sun's rays from outside and scattered them throughout the room as if it was a stained glass window. There is no light diffusing from it now.

   The painting of a cardinal was hung on the wall as it had always been. Stranded on a snow-dusted oak branch, the red bird sat destitute in the heart of a vast snowstorm. A secluded house stood in the distance with a single porchlight lit. I suppose, over time, it became lost to the world. Who would notice a missing cardinal anyhow?

  Cherry cough drops wrapped in motivational quotes filled the porcelain bowl on her bedside table. Across from her hospital cot, humorless weathermen listed off the amount of expected snowfall for the week from her decrepit television. I changed the channel.

      Indiana is known for its merciless winters. Snow gathers outside windows -- coating streets and creating mile-wide traffic jams. As someone who had lived in the state for years, she knew not to go outdoors after a snowstorm; the pathways were always covered with a thick coating of solid ice. Obstinately, she had decided wearing high heels was acceptable attire for venturing out into the blizzard to fetch the mail. On her way inside, the usual zephyrs became violent, and the apartment building had not yet invested in the promised iron railings. Her bratty neighbor found her outside sprawled out on top of the ice-blanketed concrete, her mail scattered around her like a foreboding halo.

   Her raspy voice called out to me from under the lump of covers. A speckled, withering hand stretched out to grab my pale, smooth one. The diamond wedding ring she never took off, even after his passing almost 40 years ago, twinkled lustrously back at me. Ornate clip-on earrings were fastened on her earlobes. The transparent, plastic storage container sitting on her bedside table was always teeming with heaps of jewelry.

   Her cerulean eyes once held as much light as the glowing star we gazed upon when I was a vexatious toddler. Now, it matched the pulpous polluted lake behind her apartment. I heard the same raspy voice call out to me again.

   "My sweet, sweet girl. Come and chat awhile." I moved to sit at the edge of her mattress, careful not to inadvertently damage her. Subdued orbs looked me up and down as if assessing my being. Her own pallid features stared back at me as my face was taken in between bony fingers and turned side to side. Once her examination was completed, she beamed, and everything seemed as if it was going to be alright. 

  "You have grown so much since the last time I saw you! Just look at how mature and beautiful you have become!" 

  "It hasn't been that long," I paused, "only a few months."

  "It feels like a lifetime." She sighed and grasped my right hand. As usual, a bracelet from the box beside her was carefully taken out and placed into my palm. It was a string of white pearls I had noticed her wearing at various family gatherings.

  "I couldn't possibly take these, they are important to you." I tried to give them back, but she gently pushed my hand away. 

   "No, no! I am presenting them to you as a gift. You know how important you are to me. So far, it happens to be that you are the only person to come and--" Abruptly, she started coughing. It was a deep, rattling sound as if there was a drum rattling, trapped inside her lungs. Unsure of what to do, I attempted to offer support, yet she motioned that she was fine. The coughing died down, and my previously stilled lungs started to rise and fall systematically once again. 

   "Well," she cleared her throat, "you will be bringing those pearls back home. Of course, they used to mean a lot to me; however, times change. You are more valuable to me than they will ever be." Her words paralyzed my lungs once again, and I was hesitant about how to respond. Declarations of affection were unfamiliar to me. A pregnant pause ensued.

  "You know," she leaned up close to whisper in my ear, her stale breath emanating outward, "you will forever be my favorite." 

  My heart stopped beating for a total of five seconds. 

  On the first, it occurred to me that someone would be taking down her beloved cardinal painting.

  On the second, I realized we would never again quarrel regarding her going outside in hazardous conditions wearing high heels.

  By the third, I knew all of my memories of her would someday fade until they were nothing more than a wisp of who she once was. 

  It was only by the fourth that I realized she was saying a definitive farewell.

   The fifth second was harrowing. It was where I understood the one task I dreaded more than anything would shortly come to pass.

   I had to let her go. I had to go home. 

   And so did she.