Who Sat With Him

My father was on the fourth floor. It was a Tuesday that had already lasted too long. About three in the morning I went for coffee because if I sat still I was going to make a sound I did not want him to hear. When I came back a woman was in the chair I had pulled up. She was holding his hand. She was humming something I almost knew. She wore a pale cardigan, the kind of thing a person puts on in a cold building, and she looked up as if I were expected.

She said, “He’s not alone.” Then she stood, set his hand down with care, and walked out past me. I did not smell perfume. I did not feel a chill. I stood there with two coffees like a fool.

The desk had no volunteer on the floor. No one matching her had signed in. The night nurse, who was kind, said families see what they need to see, which I know is a sentence meant to help. My father died at ten past four. His face was quiet.

I have told this as a comfort when people ask if I was by myself. I have also told it as a question. I would like the Archives to hold both. I do not require that she be an angel. I require that I not be talked out of a woman in a chair.