Margaret looked smaller beneath the white hospital blanket than she did in my memory, her hair cut short and silver around her ears, but her gray eyes were alert and sharp the instant I cleared my throat.

“Don’t just stand there, Tommy, come give me a hug before I start charging admission,” she said.

I walked to the edge of the vinyl floor mat, bent down, and wrapped my arms around her thin shoulders.

She smelled of lemon soap and hospital disinfectant, and her spine felt slight and fragile through her flannel gown.

“You’ve put on twenty pounds since the spring dance in 1979, Pastor,” she said, settling back onto her pillow.

She winked at me, her mouth curling into the same crooked smile that used to make the back of my neck burn during study hall.

“And you still talk too fast when you’re caught off guard,” I said.

“Somebody has to keep you moving,” she said, reaching for the plastic cup of juice with both frail hands.

“You were always ten minutes behind the rest of Oakridge.”

I pulled over the metal visitor’s chair and sat, holding her left hand gently in mine while she took a slow sip through a green plastic straw.

“We spent an hour stuck in your dad’s yellow station wagon after that dance,” I said, watching her face soften under the fluorescent light.

“You laughed so hard about the flat tire that a county deputy pulled over to make sure we weren’t hurt.”

“He thought we’d lost our minds,” she said, setting the cup down on the stainless tray.

“You tried changing that tire in your suit jacket and wrecked both elbows.”