Who am I? And how, I wonder, will this story end?

The sun has come up and I am sitting by a window that is foggy with the breath of a life gone by. I'm a sight this morning: two shirts, heavy pants, a scarf wrapped twice around my neck and tucked into a thick sweater knitted by my daughter thirty birthdays ago.

My room is on the second floor of the nursing home, and though it is clean and comfortable, it is not home. The walls are white and bare except for a painting of flowers that hangs directly across from me. It is a simple watercolor, nothing special, but it reminds me of her. Always her.

There are other things in the room. A bed, a nightstand, a chest of drawers, a small table where I eat my meals. And books. Hundreds of books, stacked in piles on the floor, on the windowsill, on every surface. They are my companions now, these books, and though I've read most of them a dozen times, they still bring me comfort.

But today is different. Today I will read from the notebook.