text: Margaret’s caretakers tell me she doesn’t have long. When she was born, I swore that she would be my last child. It was for humane reasons at first--for the sake of my children and my own peace of mind. But as she grew, as she became the sweet, fiercely compassionate woman she became, I wanted her to be my last child because I had never done better. She was the best of them all, and she made me feel like my life had not gone to waste. I walked through the doors of the “Colonial Plains Nursing Home,” a facility designed to mirror a particular vision of the American past. There was a mix of Monticello-esque columns with the 21st-century idea of colonial decor. The colors were hospital-style pastels with dark brown accents, ostensibly to match the wooden beams of construction back then. There were a lot of cornucopias and rocking chairs. The idea was to appeal to a kind of nostalgia that couldn’t be rationalized with. If no one was actually in Colonial America, then everyone could remain at peace in the illusion of a shared past. It was a good enough effort, but I had that bemused condescension people must feel when movies about their lives exaggerate the wrong details. The woman at the front desk stopped me as a I walked past. She must be new, I thought. She was in her mid-30s, if I had to guess. “Excuse me, young man. You’ll need a visitor’s pass. Who are you here to visit?” “Margaret De la Cruz. She’s in Room 3A.” The young woman was clicking around a lot more than Mrs. Myler, the other front desk woman. She squinted at the screen, searching for the right way to record my visit and print my pass. I tapped my foot lightly, but enough to be heard. “I’m sorry, we don’t normally allow unsupervised minors in the facility. Are your parents with you today?” I started composing a good excuse, but to my relief, a heavyset orderly in his 50s walked around the corner: Harold, a proud man who understood, as few do, the ancient and sacred duty of caring for our elders. “Ah, Ms. Peña, I can vouch for young Will here. His grandma isn’t doing too well--he’s been visiting every day this week. I can record his visit, don’t you worry.” Before she had a chance to argue, I was already walking down the hall as quickly as possible. Before long, I was in Room 3A. “Mrs. De la Cruz, I’m back. How are you feeling?” My daughter opened her eyes. Even now, close to the end, she was keenly observant. Her hair was thin and her brown skin papery and liver-spotted, but her eyes--her eyes could reduce emperors to jittery schoolchildren with a hard look. “Ah, William. Not bored of this old crow yet?” “Old crow? All I see is a young lady in her prime!” “Ha! I should be so lucky that this was never my prime.” “What will it be today, Mrs. De la Cruz? Want to talk about your childhood? Or are you interested in recording an interview about your activist work?” I started taking out my headphones and a voice recorder when Margaret handed me a book. “I much rather feel like being read to, William.” “I--read to? That’s not really why I’m here, Mrs. De la Cruz.” “Maybe not--but I also know you’re not here with the Jamestown Historical Society. Or is the historical society hiring teenagers to conduct interviews now?” “Mrs. De la Cruz, I--” “Never mind why you’re here. Fine. Let’s trade. A story for a story.” I took the book from her--To Kill a Mockingbird--and nodded my head. “Well before your parents would have been born, the children in my neighborhood came down with a truly terrible case of the flu,” she said with clarity. “A few children died, if I remember. All of us were quarantined in a special part of the hospital to keep the flu from spreading.” Margaret absentmindedly stroked the back of her hand. I recognized the gesture and made a note not to do the same. “I was delirious most of the time--the fever kept most of us on the edge of death for a few days. But I remember being read to then. A young man, unafraid of the flu, came in to read to us to help us take our mind off the fever and sickness and nausea.” I realized my hands were gripping the book hard enough to bend the cover. I loosened. “But I remember believing that he was there to read to me especially. He stood in the center of the room and read to us all, but he only ever paused or slowed down when I couldn't hear. While other children drifted in and out of consciousness, he read the book only when I was awake. Other children might have missed bits of the story, but I didn’t miss a single line.” Margaret reached out to my face and touched my ear, putting her finger on a birthmark behind my earlobe. “I would like to be read to one last time, William.” She touched her own ear absentmindedly, and for the first time I saw that she had a birthmark in the same place. I resisted the urge to hold her, to tell her it was going to be fine, that she wouldn't be alone for the rest of her life. Instead, I wiped my eyes, took a breath, and turned to the first page.