The morning light filtered through the kitchen window, pale and watery, illuminating the dust motes that danced above the table. It was a quiet light, the kind that comes early in the spring before the sun has found its strength. On the table, the pill organizer sat open. Monday morning. The blue compartment for morning meds. The white pill for his heart. The yellow pill for his memory. The small blue one for the pain in his knees.
I stood over the tray, counting them out loud as I had done every day for the past year. One, two, three. I placed them in the small cup. I poured the water. I checked the temperature with my wrist. Not too cold. Not too hot. Just right.
I carried the tray into the living room. The television was off. The room was silent except for the hum of the heating syste
