I wiped the counter and put his mug in the dishwasher.

Thirty-four years of that same mug, chipped on the handle.

Margaret had been at the county hospital since Wednesday, and sometime Thursday the nurses stopped saying “a few days” and started saying “rehab floor.”

I got there Saturday morning at eight with her good blanket over my arm and a cup of ice from the machine.

She had the bed cranked up and the television off, which meant she was either feeling better or covering for feeling worse.

“You’re here,” she said.

She got the two words out between breaths.

“I’m here.”

She gripped the edge of the blanket and pulled it to her chest.

The monitor behind her blinked a green number I had stopped trying to read.

“What day is it?”

“Saturday.”

She let her head fall back on the pillow.

“I had it as Thursday for a while there.”