The room was empty. Clean. Waiting for the next patient. The bed was made with fresh white sheets.
We stood in the doorway together and looked at the little square window.
Outside, in the courtyard, under the lights, my grandfather’s cherry tree was in full bloom. Pink and white and glowing in the dark. Fifty-three years old. Taller than the second-floor window now. The blossoms pressed right up against the glass.
“Frank would’ve liked that,” Grandma said softly.
“He would have,” I said.
She was quiet for a long time.
“You know what I’ve learned, Daniel?” she said. “In seventy-nine years?”
“What, Grandma?”
“People think family is the names on a list,” she said. “Who’s allowed in the waiting room. Who’s allowed through the door. Who gets to sit in the good chairs.” She shook her head. “But that’s not family. That’s just paperwork.”
