She is whole. 

She stands upright, lacking any indication of pain. I watch as her steady hands flour the surface of the mahogany countertop with ease. I study the way her time-worn hands gently coax the dough to fold beneath itself. Though it resists her at first, the persistent dance of her palms contorts the dough to her desired shape beneath her gentle touch. A country song echoes from the living room into the kitchen, creating a soft, murmured tune. She hums along as she effortlessly continues to tuck and fold the dough to the rhythm. She looks up to catch me admiring her. She cracks me a crooked grin in return. I smile back, grateful to be here with her, all the while amazed at her ability to knead the dough without watching the movement of her hands. Now rounded and smooth, she places it in a ceramic pan and carefully tucks it away into the oven. Anticipation fills the room as we await the nostalgic smell of fresh bread to fill the air of her quaint kitchen. I've tried kneading dough before, but I find its resistance to my tucking and pulling to be aggravating. Grammy makes it look easy. She is soft and patient, a vast contrast to my rigid demeanor. Eagerly, I crouch down to watch the dough expand within the warmth of the oven. It stretches and retreats in the heat, as though taking heavy breaths. 

“Watching it won’t make it cook any faster, dear,” Grammy teases. 

Despite her comment, I can't unglue my eyes from the oven. Just as the scent begins to wrap me in a nostalgic embrace, my alarm goes off. 

I slam my phone to silence the relenting echo. I sit up from my sheets to be greeted with a cloudy hello from the world outside. With an exasperated sigh, I build up the courage to get out of my bed’s warm embrace. 

The earthy smell of pine and lavender invades my nostrils  as I saunter through the gliding doors of the retirement home. Elderly gather around the foyer, murmuring anecdotes and silently laughing to one another. The soft tune of a piano trickles in from the music room to the foyer. Smiling nurses gather behind the front desk to flash me a welcoming grin. I smile back and carry on towards the elevator doors. The elevator carries me three floors high and releases me at the assisted living wing. I take a shallow breath before stepping off. The assisted living wing is an utter contrast compared to the foyer. There is no scent of lavender or pine. Instead, a combination of must and urine pollutes the air. There is no piano playing softly in the distance. It is silent, with the occasional interruption of a groan or a soft cry. I brace myself and continue down the corridor. Several residents peek at me through the cracks of their doors. I make eye contact with a woman sitting in her walker outside her room. We don’t speak, but her eyes seem to plead for help. I buckle my shoulders and continue forward until I reach Grammy’s room. With a gentle knock, I coax the door open.

“Hi Grammy,” I whisper. 

She doesn’t respond. She only glances at me. She sits in her rocking chair, her back hunched, and her head bowed towards the floor. Her once slender figure is now skeletal. Her room is dimly lit, and her face is illuminated by the flashes of scenes passing by on her television. 

“How are you feeling today?” I question, more enthusiastically than I mean to.

She shakes her head in response as if to say “not good.” 

Tears begin to well in my eyes, but I fight them from slipping down my cheeks. I inch closer to her. I wonder if she knows who I am today. With her head still lowered to the ground, I take a seat next to her on the floor beside her rocking chair. I take her hand in mine and wince at the coolness of her palm. Blue veins trace down her arm to her fingertips like rivers. Her hands that once rhythmically kneaded dough now seem so fragile. With her hand in mine, she looks up at me. I want so badly to let my tears fall. But I stop myself, because I only mourn her in my dreams. So, instead I whisper, 

“I love you.”