I knock at Grace’s door.
She calls: “Door’s unlocked.
Come in.”
She’s sitting by the window.
She turns to me and smiles.
“Hi, girlie.”
I say, “I brought you
an oatmeal cookie.”
“That cop find my cart?”
she asks.
“No. Sorry,” I tell her.
“But now you have a room
to keep your things safe.”
“But I miss my cart.”
I walk over to the window.
I change the subject. “Wow!
What a great view. You can
see everything that’s going on.”
“I had my stuff in my cart.”
I sit on the arm of Grace’s chair.
I pat her hand. “I know you did,”
I say. “But look at all
the nice stuff you have here.”
“Is that cop really looking?”
Why is Grace all worried
about a rickety old cart when
she has this wonderful, clean room?
I change the subject again.
“Well, here’s your cookie.”
Grace takes it but
she doesn’t eat it.
She folds it into a piece of cloth
from her pocket.
Then she tucks it
under the chair cushion.
“To keep it safe for later,” she says.