When I met Mr. Rosenbaum, age ninety, I’d been a physical therapist at the hospital for all of three months.
The nurse had propped up his scabbed foot on several pillows. Cushioned on them like a precious jewel, it extended over the bed’s end.
I introduced myself and asked if he’d like help adjusting his yarmulke, which was entangled in the nasal breathing tube slung around his left ear. He smiled at me, one eye wider than the other. I grinned back, reminded of my own grandpa.
“Are you married?” he asked.