“Una cosa que a mi me gusta hacer…” the nurse says, “…is to play with the sounds she listens to.”
The nurse which Father hired to inspect his mother changes the channel on the radio. The soft sounds of folk music that Father remembers hearing all of the time on the radio in his hometown in rural Guanacaste changes to something classical. It seems to be Mozart or Bach, or one of those classical pianists Father rarely listens to in Costa Rica. He didn’t even know there was a station for classical music in San José.
Abuelita’s eyes start to glimmer. Something of a smile curves over her lips. It is not a full smile, just a slight recognition of something swelling her heart with happiness, one that need not percolate through her gestures.
The nurse gives a smile to Father, and Father pays it back. Father continues to hold his mother’s hand, feeling it increase in warmth.
“She is improving,” Father says. He scoots his stool closer to his mother’s wheelchair, tries to put a little less space between himself in his evening shirt and shorts and herself in her evening gown. His mother smells of old clothes, with a slight perfume from the shower his wife gave her in the morning hours. Father cups both of his hands over hers. Abuelita curls her hand into a fist, and Father wishes to stop it.
The nurse moves her own stool closer to the table and the sofa. She stares at the radio nobs, as if she wants to start fiddling with them again.
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