Later on, the old woman died doing the same thing she had been doing for seven years: saying something gibberish. That afternoon, it was not her husband's name. I am eating a pear a few steps away from the bed when I learned about it.

After the call, I have to find another home whose blinds would welcome the nameless, whose beds were willing to take care of anybody's steps. The pear in my mouth I found too gritty that I spat the mush on a clasped hand. Then I swallowed it like a pill. Maybe the days will be new, that day when I will eat pears beside the window, with the blinds raised, and there will be the first leaves of spring, the blinding sunlight, and from the mailbox were envelopes bearing my name.