Long shadows cast from the evening sun spilled through a large picture window. The wall opposite the window was filled with faint images of life beyond the room, beyond the glass window, and beyond the home that harvested those who can no longer function on their own. Gloria mindlessly watched silhouettes of leaves dance to the slow, irregular rhythm of Mrs. Mulvaney’s shallow breathing. Her breath was much like the tiny, gnarled body that produced it. Each inhalation seemed difficult and labored. Once the lungs were filled, it seemed the body did not want to release the air back into the world.

“I thought you went home,” a young nurse whispered as she walked by Mrs. Mulvaney’s open door. “Is everything okay?”

“This room is so peaceful, ya know? I felt like spending a few minutes with Mrs. Mulvaney before I head out.” Gloria glanced toward the doorway. Her eyes slowed as they scanned the framed photos atop the dresser in the corner of the room. She turned her head to meet the young nurse’s inquisitive face. Faith’s name was perfect for the sweet, energetic LPN who had joined the staff a few months earlier. She managed to lift the spirits of the elderly residents and somehow bring smiles to faces where smiles had faded away.

“Has she been awake much this afternoon?”

“About two hours ago she woke, and we talked as I took her vitals.” Trying to tuck a few long strands of stray hairs into the clip that held her thick ponytail, Gloria looked at the younger nurse and added, “It’s been so long since Mrs. Mulvaney had visitors. I don’t know how much longer these folks can go on living here like prisoners. It breaks my heart. I thought I would sit with her to unwind before I go home. This pandemic isolation is getting to Jack and the kids, too.”

“Mrs. Mulvaney is one of the lucky ones,” Faith whispered. “At least her kids call her every day. Some residents haven’t seen their families in months. They don’t get phone calls or mail—nothing but our smiling faces. If you think this pandemic has taken a toll on us, can you imagine what it’s done to these folks?”

Without responding, Gloria watched Faith’s wrinkled blue scrubs disappear in the hallway. I certainly can imagine, Gloria thought. Conversations with Mrs. Mulvaney replayed in Gloria’s mind as she watched the shadows grow longer on the yellow wall near the bed. Stories of growing up during the Great Depression, then watching young men march off to war—that was from Gloria’s high school history books. Mrs. Mulvaney’s stories were real. The ninety-eight-year-old lady described her parents. She seemed proud that her father had enlisted for duty during WWI. The country home where she grew up was filled with music on the weekends when friends and neighbors gathered with guitars and banjos. Her father had a beautiful bass voice, she would wistfully say. Mrs. Mulvaney always chuckled when she shared the story of how her mother teased him about his perfect tenor voice. Christmas seasons were filled with anticipation of the single gift that awaited on Christmas morning. It seemed to be a simple life, much like the lady who rested in the bed before the tired nurse.

Gloria reached across the white sheet and held Mrs. Mulvaney’s hand. It seemed cold. The skin was bluish. Images of the elderly lady as a younger woman filled Gloria’s imagination. Portraits of soldiers were proudly displayed throughout the room. Mr. Mulvaney was a WWII veteran, her son served in Vietnam, a grandson served during Desert Storm. Faces of her children, grandchildren, great- and great-great-grandchildren smiled from all angles toward the lady’s bed. Gloria overheard a telephone conversation with one of the daughters several weeks ago. “My room is filled with visitors, honey.” It was, in a way, Gloria thought. Faces of loved ones kept Mrs. Mulvaney company through the isolation. Each month a delivery of flowers arrived with the same message: “We miss you, Mom. Hope to see you soon. We love you.” Mrs. Mulvaney seemed filled with excitement to show Gloria the flowers as soon as the nurse arrived for her morning shift. “Look what those kids did,” Mrs. Mulvaney would say as she pointed to the vase next to her bed. “I always had a flower garden….” She never continued. Her eyes would close, then open to a new subject. Perhaps some things are too difficult to remember, Gloria thought.

The nurse abruptly sat upright. Mrs. Mulvaney’s chest released a soft rattle as she tried to exhale. Shadows no longer danced on the wall near the elderly lady’s bed. The only light in the room flowed in through the doorway. Gloria was tired but did not want to leave the lady alone. She had dreamed of Mrs. Mulvaney the night before. Images of blue butterflies like the silk ones tucked in the bouquets of flowers each month filled Jill’s dream. A flower garden edged by a white picket fence exploded with brightly colored flowers and blue butterflies. Maybe that’s why I’m drawn to stay with Mrs. Mulvaney this evening, she thought. The dream, butterflies, the loneliness of pandemic isolation. Gloria stood and walked toward the window, gazing at the full moon rising in the eastern sky. I should go home. Instead, she stretched her legs and arms, turned on the small lamp, then walked back to the chair near Mrs. Mulvaney’s bed.

Slinging her leg over the arm of the chair, Gloria squirmed until she was comfortable and began to talk to Mrs. Mulvaney. She described her husband, her children, her aspirations, and the hardest thing about being a nurse. Her words stopped for a short time, then she began to speak again. She described the best things about being a nurse, about her time years ago as an OB nurse and the beauty of new life entering the world. Finally, she shared something she had never shared with anyone. She spoke of the times she experienced the grace of being with a person who was ready to leave this world and journey onward. The words choked Gloria. In silence, she watched Mrs. Mulvaney smile like a baby smiles in its sleep. A wisp of air blew across Gloria’s face as she noticed the blue silk butterfly softly flutter in the flower vase. It only took five seconds for Mrs. Mulvaney to quietly leave her lonely room behind. She’s gone home, Gloria thought.

Pat Dotson embraces writing as a respite from life’s daily challenges. When she isn’t caring for her husband, you will find her working on a collection of short stories that highlight our disabled veterans and their caregivers. Listen quietly and you might hear her whisper “Each day is a gift” as she photographs the natural beauty along the woodland trails near her home in the New River Gorge. Pat’s work has appeared in a national woman’s magazine, and her first children’s book will be released in the spring of 2021.