It's nearly noon when I get off the bus and walk the familiar path to the hospital. The air feels thin today, like my chest can't fully expand no matter how deeply I breathe.
Before doing my first night shift, I want to visit mom first. I hope she's feeling a bit better now than the last time we met.
I bring a small container of her favorite rice crackers, even though I know she hasn't touched anything sweet in weeks. The guards already know me. I sign in, greet them with a polite nod, and climb the quiet stairs to the psychiatric wing.
My mom looks smaller than I remember. The hospital gown seems to hang from her like a bedsheet on a clothesline. Her hair, once smooth and chestnut-dark with flecks of auburn, has dulled, and her skin clings too tightly to her cheekbones. She's sitting on the edge of her bed, staring out the barred window like she's watching a movie only she can see.
I stop in the doorway. She doesn't acknowledge me. I don't blame her.
