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By Root 382 0

center, covered with a purple tablecloth that shimmered as you passed by it. In the center was a beautiful flower arrangement, more glorious than anything in House and Garden, and on the mantel were at least forty cards with names written in calligraphy. Forty? I didn’t realize there would be that many at the meal. As I wondered if I had baked enough bread, people greeted me. Some I knew, others were staff I’d seen but never met. An older woman, wearing a colorful vest that was probably vintage 1970s, offered to take the bread into the kitchen. It was still warm, and the smell stunned her. She called other people over to share the experience. One was a resident who had non-Hodgkin lymphoma. He was a huge man with letters tattooed on each of his fingers, from when he had been in San Quentin, sideburns down to his jawline, and a straggly mustache. I expected a deep rumbling to come out of his mouth, but his voice was amazingly soft as he told me his name, Paul, and then he introduced me to June, his wife. Although shorter than Paul, June blocked out his silhouette when she stepped in front of him. She immediately embraced me in a bear hug, kissing me as if I was a favorite nephew.

When June released me and moved to the side, I saw someone insisting on walking down from the second floor. His gaunt face was covered by a gray mustache and beard, his long thinning hair was tied in a ponytail, and his jeans were bunched in the front so they wouldn’t fall off. After four steps, he couldn’t move. Exhausted, he slowly sank onto a stair. It brought back memories of walking down the stairs in my house for the first time after surgery, each step sending a sharp pain through my body.

“Jim, would you like help coming down?” the woman in the vest asked from downstairs.

With his eyes closed and his upper body held upright by two volunteers, he nodded his head yes. They raised him and, using a fireman’s carry, brought him down the remaining ten steps. After they gently lowered Jim into a wheelchair, he rested his chin on his chest. When his breathing slowed, he was wheeled into the dining room and a chair next to where I sat was removed. The table had twelve place settings precisely laid out as if on a grid. I wondered where the other twenty-eight people were and where they would sit. I waited for Jim to turn in my direction, but he didn’t.

“Hi Jim,” I finally said. The disease had so ravaged him, he was unable to move his head. He turned his upper body to see me, and our eyes met. He stared without blinking, without expressing anything. I thought his look was imploring me to say or do something. But what? The best I could say was, “I’m Stan. I’ll be staying with you through the night. This is my first shift at the House, so if I screw up, please let me know.”

He leaned toward me and in a barely audible voice said, “There’s no way you can make as many mistakes as I have. Don’t sweat it.”

Shortly afterward, the remaining ten people sat down and someone suggested we remember those who died at the Guest House over the past few months. He gestured toward the place cards on the mantel. During the silent meditation period, I didn’t think about the names. Instead, memories of my parents’ deaths flashed back along with frightening images of what my own might look like. After we finished, Jim turned back to his food and tried to pick up a fork. Although he could hold it, his fingers didn’t have the strength to grasp it firmly and it dropped to the floor. The person next to him, who was talking to someone across the table, took another fork without stopping his conversation and picked up a small amount of sweet potatoes. As he raised it, Jim opened his mouth and smiled at the volunteer. I looked around the table and saw nobody showed any interest in what was occurring; almost as if this was common.

After eating a few bites of sweet potatoes and some ice cream, Jim slowly hunched over. Was he dying right here in front of me? No one seemed concerned until someone casually asked him if he would like to go back to his room. He nodded yes, and was