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 doesn't stop by or call again after the April visit.
The next time I see her is at the summer convention in Anchorage. She sits in a wheel chair on the floor of the arena. She only stands for brief periods.
What do I say? I bring my vacation photos to share with her. I summon my courage. I say, "Hello."
I know what I'll do. I'll leave the album and pick it up later.
Bess points to the empty chair beside her. "Please sit down."
I feel off guard. I hadn't intended to stay for more than a minute. How can I refuse? She means so much to me, and she has always come to my aid when I needed her. In my recollection, this is the first time she's ever ask me for anything. I sit beside her.
Her skin looks fragile and delicate. At times her eyes appear vacant like I've never seen before. Walnut-sized tumors are visible under the skin on neck. Her left arm looks almost paralyzed. She tires easily, but she tells me, "I want to squeeze every little bit I can out of this convention."
I feel guilty. I worry that my presence overtires her.
Everyone knows. People come down to the floor of the arena and speak with her briefly. I try to take a picture of each group that comes to greet her. I envision a scrapbook that we will share together later while she is recuperating.
As I leave her, I say, "Call me when we get home. I'll bring the pictures by."
"I will." she promises.
I return to my seat in the balconey and sob.
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