There are always questions at the end of the visit.

It’s only natural. Nobody remembers everything. I’m used to clarifying and reiterating.

But your question catches me off guard.

“Did you know that hummingbirds remember every single flower they’ve ever visited?” 1/

I smile, and shake my head. “No, I didn’t know that.”

You nod at me, “Well, it’s true. I’m gonna send you a bill now.”

I laugh, and the layered masks muffle the sound.

I was consulted because your kidney function is dropping.

Clear yellow urine now turning dark amber. 2/

Your room is on a COVID unit.

The plastic sheets you have to zipper yourself through. The cool hiss of the air flow. Donning and doffing.

There was a time when this was a pulse-quickening ritual, when adrenaline would flow.

Now it is a necessary nuisance.

Numbing. 3/

Every time I see you, the visit finishes with an exchange of trivia.

You tell me something I didn’t know.

I try and tell you something equally interesting.

It’s a sort of game. A challenge.

I realize that it’s something I’m looking forward to, every day.

A little joy. 4/

Late in the evening, when I get home, I sit down with some books and skim through for interesting tidbits I could use.

“Schott’s Original Miscellany” is a godsend, as is The Guinness Book.

I enjoy the peace.

No screens. No one monetizing my attention.

Just pages turning. 5/