I’m watching my mother spoon a “magic cup” into my grandpa’s mouth. It’s ice cream with nutrients and protein laced throughout; “magic cup” sounds more enticing. This is the state of things at home in Wichita, I’m afraid.

My grandpa is 87-years-old. After being hospitalized for an issue or three in the autumn, he now spends his time in a rehab facility. It’s a temporary nursing home, really, a place to learn how to become mobile again. My parents, my mom’s siblings and my grandma take turns keeping vigil 4-8 hours at a time. It’s been like this for months, a schedule made out for every day of the week, and it could continue for months more.

He doesn’t say much, but he was never one to gab. My sister and I visited him a few nights ago and he awoke long enough to faintly nod hello and mouth goodbye. When words are so few, this suddenly becomes very meaningful.