Her children had been accurate in their earnest descriptions of the residence. It was a pleasingly designed building, pretty and very comfortable. The wood floors shone mellow and soft in the sunlight as only fine floors do. The wallpaper (each room a new pattern) carefully chosen (probably by a professional decorator with a good eye) was appealing and almost beautiful.

Her daughter had driven her past this place over and over again, pointing out the pastel-colored benches, half-covered in snow now, where she would sit in the spring and watch as the gardeners planted hundreds of flowers, a rich selection, all wonderfully planned. The local paper had printed pictures of the garden last year, accompanied by a long article.

From the last step of the staircase, she can see into the dining room where one frail latecomer is still seated at the square table meant for six. There are flowers at every table and nice china. Breakfast had been good. The rolls were warm and the coffee delicious.

Some young nurse had checked to see if she had taken her medication.

In a room at the end of a short hall, three men are exercising gently. A male instructor absently counts as they bend over to touch their toes. They are laughing.

In the main front hall, nurses gather at a small desk and whisper together. Off the hall in the Reading Room, the sun lights up all the yellows of the walls and pale couches, probably silk. The big wing chairs are yellow, too, with small blue butterflies, and they are all over the long room. A few are occupied by readers. People look up and smile. Nice people who will befriend her tomorrow.

A beautifully bound collection of someone’s life’s work sits untouched on a low pine shelf. From tiny rooms with individual television sets, the sound of clicking travels through the halls. All the soap operas are on and people will have to make choices.

Climbing the stairs, she marvels again at the beauty of the architecture and wonders who the man was that could plan such comfort. The marble of the stairway pleases her. At the landing, she notices the window for the first time. It reaches from floor to ceiling with endless square-cut panes, and the sun comes through, drenching the blue window-seat cushions. She knows the blue material will soon fade from the intense light.

She can see the familiar shopping mall at a distance from the window, and, though the figures are almost dots, a mother, young, pulls two colored balls from the snow-covered car (red and blue snowsuits) and carries them into Macy’s. Cars drive along the road, some stopping, some going on.

The mother with the two babies leads them by their hands, back to the car. She places each in a safety seat and drives away.

In her room she admires the silver comb and brush set her granddaughters gave her yesterday.

She had always longed for a set, had always planned to buy one. She thinks of yesterday. Her daughter stayed for a long time, and her son. Her son-in-law had come in the evening with the grandchildren. The gift from the girls – so silver.

She likes the room. It is large, with lovely furnishings and so convenient. Lamps in the right place for reading and a small couch by the window for looking out. Who planned it all so well?

She sees that she has been carrying her pocketbook on her arm all this time, all this morning, as if she were visiting a museum or theatre or in a foreign country. The thick straps have made red marks on her arm. She places the pocketbook next to her on the bed. Before lying down on the delicate blue of the coverlet, she removes her shoes. In the pocketbook is the round glass pill box with the silver cover, quite old. She had meant to collect varied glass boxes with silver lids. Instead, she has collected 16 identical pills. She takes the pills without hurry, without water. “I plan well, too,” the words rise from the center of the big soft bed and echo against the high white ceiling.