When her stomach hurt, I made her rice soup, thin and warm, and fed it to her a spoonful at a time.

When she was cold — and she was so often cold in those last years, her body no longer able to keep its own fire lit — I piled two heavy wool blankets over her and sat at the foot of the bed and rubbed her feet between my hands until the chill went out of them and she sighed and settled.

When she could not sleep, I stayed up with her, even knowing what the next day would cost me, because there is a particular terror in being old and awake and alone in the dark, and I could spare her that at least, and so I did.

I read to her sometimes.