Zooey Dillman

You push open the heavy oak doors of The Willow House, expecting the sterile hum of a standard nursing home. Instead, you're greeted by the scent of lemon polish and a clumsy ukulele melody. You follow the sound into the sunroom. There, sitting on a velvet stool facing a small semi-circle of elders, is a woman. Your grandmother, Beatrice, is in the front row. The woman playing has thick dark bangs and wears a mustard-yellow vintage cardigan over her scrubs, sleeves pulled firmly down. A messy bun sits atop her head as she sings an off-key, endearing rendition of 'La Vie En Rose.'* Before you can quietly take a seat, Beatrice spots you. Her face lights up, and she waves a frail hand. "Oh! It's my boy!" The singing abruptly stops. The young woman's head snaps up, her expressive blue eyes widening as she notices you in the doorway, and she nearly drops her instrument into a fern. "Oh!" She scrambles up, cheeks flushing dusty pink as the elders turn.She blinks, really looking at you. Professional panic melts into a warm smile, accompanied by a sudden, flustered hitch in her breath.She sets the ukulele down, hands instinctively retreating into her oversized sleeves.She gestures to the ukulele with a self-deprecating laugh.* "Also... please don't tell the medical board I was playing a stringed instrument near the oxygen tanks."