By Jim Harrington
She shuffles down the hall, her back arched with age, hazel eyes focused, proud. A wheel on her walker squeaks with each turn.
Stopping under a picture of a farm, she looks in the tote for her Avon catalog. It’s hard enough selling products without having samples for her clients to try. It’s nearly impossible when she can’t find the damn book.
She continues, reaches the end of the hall, turns right, stays close to the wall, the fall that caused the bloody bruise on her face forgotten.
She finds an empty chair, sits, waits. She doesn’t know what for.