Jeter and Geranium

Friday afternoon I walked down to the subway from the hospice with Jeter in one hand and a potted geranium in the other. The patient I had seen since my first day at hospice died the day before, long past the time when any of us who knew him had thought possible. For that, having that unexpected extra time with the self-described "tough old bird," we are grateful. His things were still in his room and I had permission to take Jeter, the inexpensive collectible that was our first bond. The bat had broken off it and I told him I thought I might be able to fix it with super glue. It worked and he was grateful. Friday I knocked the bat with a newpaper section on the subway home and it immediately snapped off. Seemed right somehow. The geranium I bought him when he wanted more plants in his room and caring for it, he turned it in to a giant once I convinced him it was OK, in fact essential, to pinch off dead blooms and leaves. Another friend of shorter duration also died this past week. All these people who have passed through my life as they were leaving it don't haunt me -- they are too good for that -- but I can picture them better in my mind than I can picture most living people.