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Sitting perpendicular to either side of the bed, slippers in symmetry; one pair, a diminutive size five, pink slip-on terry cloth with tears at the pressure points of endless morning shuffles. The other, lambswool-lined and leather, worn size twelve heels from a hard-stepped gait, scuff marks at the toes from bumps into walls and furniture.

A knock at the open bedroom door. “All right, you two. Time to get up.” It is Carmen, the night nurse charged with breakfast until Lucia, the day nurse and Carmen’s sister, arrives.

Ninety-four, Ed is hard of hearing with the girth of a beached whale. He continues snoring. Claudine, rolling on her side, elbows him sharply and yells, “Ed, it’s time to get up.”

Snort, rasp. “Okay, Claud! I’m getting up!”

Yellow cotton pajamas with white flower print worn tissue thin; Carmen stands at the bedside with ninety-two-year-old Claudine’s flimsy white terry robe. “Okay, Mama, let’s get you up.”

Ed still snores. “Can’t help you there.” Claudine nods toward Ed. “He likes his sleep.”

“Okay, Papa, let’s get you up!” Carmen throws back the covers. He wears a sleeveless white T-shirt and Andy Warhol soup can boxers barely covering the essentials. Carmen gives him his gabardine navy robe with gold trim. “What’s a man gotta do to get some sleep around here?” he bellows.

“You’ve had plenty, Papa. It’s time for breakfast.” Cheerful but firm, Carmen gives him his marching orders.

Slipper-clad Claudine steps slowly, touching the bed for balance, heading toward the closet-sized pink bathroom. She steps into the sparkly tiled place, pulls down her nylon briefs, and lets Carmen help her take an acrid-smelling tinkle. She wipes herself, letting Carmen flush, and holds onto the support bars on either side of the bowl to boost herself up. Ed drags himself around Claudine to take his turn, bracing himself against the tile.

All of their bones and muscles ache. Reaching the kitchen for their liquid breakfasts feels like running a marathon. Ed leads down the dark brown asbestos-tiled hallway while Claudine touches his shoulder for balance, Carmen hovering behind.

“Ah, coffee! The best part of my day!” Ed doesn’t say he hasn’t had a decent cup since he stopped making it himself.

He eases into the sturdy oak chair he made when a much younger man. Claudine hangs onto the second chair, awaiting Carmen’s assistance, both sitting around the oak breakfast table Ed also made.

Carmen undoes the tops to the vanilla Ensures while Ed pleads, “Toast?”

“No, Papa, not what doctor say,” but he will get it anyway. (Carmen thinks, What’s a little toast for an old man? Ese médico loco.) They silently sip their liquid breakfasts, chock-full of vitamins and minerals, until Claudine raps the bottle down on the table, dropping her hand in her lap.

“Let me see that, Mama.” Carmen wiggles the bottle back and forth. “Not enough. You must drink ALL of it.”

Mewling, Claudine says, “But I don’t want to.”

“I know, Mommy, but you have to. Doctor orders.”

“Unnnh!”

She takes two more cursory sips and slams the bottle back down.

“Done!”

Ed sneaks a grab for her leftovers. “No!” Claudine pushes his hand away. “You have your own!”

Noticing an impending argument, Carmen comforts. “It’s all right, Mama. I bring you more.”

“Done!” Claudine glares at Ed, drinking and lunging for the single piece of toasted dry sourdough Carmen sets on a paper towel plate on the table.

“Ready!” Carmen eases Claudine up beneath her shoulders as she grasps the side of the table. She turns toward the bedroom and sways a bit. “Ok, there Mama. Slowly, slow.”

Ed remains seated, preoccupied with chewing his toast.

Lucia arrives and joins Ed for breakfast while Carmen assists Claudine down the hallway, back to the bedroom. Carmen lays out her clothes. “What you think, Mama? Blue and red today?” She discreetly removes the used tissue from the sweater sleeve, a feature of all of Claudine’s clothing, while keeping an eye on her thoroughly washing up at the porcelain sink. She takes a hung dry washcloth, softens it in warm water, and wipes her eyes clean, her nostrils, behind her ears, and her neck. She dips her fingers into the Pond’s face cream always open next to the sink and dots her withered complexion. She rubs it in clockwise circles, paying special attention to her lasting smooth cheeks. Then she turns toward Carmen with puzzled eyes, mouth sucking like a fish, and crumples to the floor so quietly Carmen hears the clock on the nightstand ticking.

She rushes to her side. “Okay, Mama, it’s okay,” tracing the sign of the cross on her forehead and whispering, “Dios te salve, María…” She yells, “Papa! Lucia! Quick!” Chairs scrape and the clop clop of Ed’s slippers move in limped time. Curled into a fetal position, Claudine’s body looks like it has gone back to the beginning, like a babe. Carmen lowers Ed to Claudine, and he holds her. Glassy with hurt and betrayal, her eyes remain open until a final sigh.

Lucia calls the emergency volunteer brigade, and they arrive only to stand respectfully back, letting Claudine die as instructed by her living will. Ed will not let her go, and it takes strong but gentle paramedic hands to return him to his bed.

The indentation in the pillow next to him has her baby shampoo smell. He lifts the sheets and smells her aged body odor and slight gassiness. He has known her for over eighty years. He will not let Lucia strip the bed while he is in the room.

Thereafter, each labored movement, task, book page read, sleep taken, meal eaten, medication downed will be the actions of a man with a touch point of heart fire that never diminishes. Many months later, with Claudine in his skin and memory, he will say, “Growing old is not for sissies.”

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