She sits silent in the tacky room.
The television volume loud enough to rumble windows, the flickering light casts eerie shadows dancing around the room. She doesn't notice.

Room 304 is her home now. Not many visitors, and when they do arrive for a visit, it isn't a lengthy stay and they don't say much. Sometimes, not speaking at all. Too busy. She doesn't notice.

She wasn't always brittle. In fact, she used to be the most sturdy of the family unit. Tidying the house, cooking meals, caring for the children, singing lullabies and wiping away tears. A pure love.

Her mornings, afternoons and evenings are filled with repetitive, rigid schedules. Boring entertainment and terribly prepared meals. Lousy mean staff lose patience with her.

As time goes on, the visits become even less frequent. Too busy. She stares at the television, deafening volume. Aluminum foil still half covering the untouched plate of meatloaf, microwaved vegetables and powder mashed potatoes.

Like a whisper extinguishing a flickering flame from an old candle. She didn't wake up in the morning. Room 304.

I didn't know her.
She didn't exist.
But I miss her.