The first time I saw her, she was already too weak to move from her hospice bed. She was a skeleton laying in a puddle of flaccid muscle. Her daughter-in-law called her “mom” with a mixture of concern and bossiness that normally comes only from one's own offspring. I couldn't remember her name. A haphazardly beautiful curl was stuck with sweat to her left temple. She seemed like a child home from school with the flu, falling asleep watching television. I kept forgetting we were in a hospice. It kept startling me.

Her daughters brought her bible to her, and the library book that had been due earlier that day. As she set it on the table, she chirped, “Only a nickel a day!” I looked around the room and wondered how much her husband's pension would cover. I listened for the beeping of machines but only some sort of drip was hooked up. It only bubbled like a desktop fountain.

She was drinking Ensure through a straw, occasionally switching to lukewarm coffee for a few sips, then back. Her diabetic son asked what flavor was it, did it taste good? It certainly isn't sugar free, she said and raised an eyebrow.

“Isn't it?”
“Oh, no, I doubt it.”
“But it must come in sugar-free?”
“Oh it must.”
“Is that butter pecan?”
“No it's a chocolate one.”
“Well Mom, it would be good with Kahlua.” said her daughter in law.
“I gave up drinking last week.”
A pause.
“I thought it might have something to do with my liver.”
Two pauses.
“At least, I prayed it might.”
She glanced up, and then down.
“But I guess all your prayers don't get answered.”
Another glance up, slightly accusing this time.
“And I suppose there is such a thing as 'no'.”
Down again, at the can of Ensure. The solemnest of all the pauses yet.
She put on her glasses with graceful dying dignity and stared gravely at the can of Ensure as if divining her body's destiny from its printed label. There was absolute silence and all eyes in the room were on her. She began to read aloud.

“Water.  Corn syrup. Sucrose.  Maltodextrin.”

A knowing look up at her son.

“Calcium caseinate.
Safflower oil, canola oil.
Soy protein isolate,
whey protein concentrate.”
She pronounced every ingredient correctly – naturally, but with minute care. Her raspy voice imbued each syllable with all the gravity of her condition.

“Corn oil.”

She paused for a few breaths, and to further scrutinize the prophetic can label. No one spoke or moved. The machine connected to the tubes bubbled. It seemed like the loudest sound in the world. I was angry at Stephen for bringing me to her too late to really know her.

“Calcium phosphate. Potassium citrate. Magnesium phosphate.”

She took off her glasses during this part, and instead of at the can she looked around the room, gazing long and hard into our faces, all of us her children. She enunciated every word. A benediction.

“Flavors.”

The last word seemed more to herself. Her eyes closed halfway and she laid her head back. She dozed off with the can carefully balanced against her body. The spell was broken. Everyone went back to talking about traffic while she slept, voices all bubbling together with the sound of the lone machine.

I kept looking at her. She was beautiful, with high cheekbones and an intelligent face, even in sleep, even in old age and sickness.