even to the dregs

We are in the Hospicare kitchen, the Sunday volunteer and I.  I'm heating up Rich's dinner of a friend's home-made calzone and my farmer's greens stew while he's making a grilled cheese sandwich for another resident.

"Excuse me," he says, "but are you okay?"

During the past four weeks, we chatted while preparing our meals.  Today I'm silently efficient.

I hesitate.  

"My husband is dying.  Of course I'm okay."

He assembles a pastor's face.  He pats my shoulder.

I decide not to kill him.

Earlier in the day I had a latte at my usual coffee spot.  Although the coffee is excellent, it is never served with frou-frou floating atop the steamed milk.  Except today, when the barista who knows me, knows Rich, hands me a surprise. 

I will have to drink this through a heart.

"Thank you, " I say, going moist.  "You made my day."

She smiles, a bit embarrassed, and turns to the next customer.

I decide I love her.

And the heart stays whole, even to the dregs.

"You're such a softie," Rich says when I tell him about my heart latte.

"But not with this volunteer," I say.  "I'm not here to make others happy."

And then he tells me about the morning's nurse who, he says, is angry with him, and he says he will try to behave better.

"You're not here to make her happy, either," I flare.

He looks at me, bewildered.  

"Aren't we all here to make others happy?"

I say nothing.  I put my head in his lap.

I decide my heart will stay whole, even to the dregs.

Candace