The hospital’s lobby was horribly crowded on Sunday afternoons, and as I waited in line for the receptionist to tell me the directions to a room I’d been to hundreds of times before, I the white stone necklace with my left hand. In my right, I held a small wicker basket that contained a bouquet of yellow daisies. The line slowly inched forward, and I soon found myself face to face with the harried looking receptionist.

“Room 405 is on the fourth floor,” she told me quickly, pushing her spectacles up the bridge of her nose. I thanked her and began the long trek up the stairs. There were elevators available, but I had never enjoyed the suffocating masses. At least I could breathe comfortably on the rickety stairs. Once I had reached room 405, I hesitated after knocking at the door.

“Come in,” a soft voice called from the other side. I walked in, squeezing the handle of my basket as if it were a lifeline. The lady in the bed sat up and gave me a confused smile.

“I thought you were coming in tomorrow?” she asked worriedly, running a hand through her thinning hair. I swallowed slightly, and my hands shook. She had mistaken me for a nurse.

“I’m here to visit,” I said quietly. She immediately brightened up and gestured me towards a chair.

“Do I know you?” she queried, trying to place a finger on my familiar face.

“I brought you flowers,” I said, evading her question. Deliberately, I brought out the bouquet.

“Daisies!” she cried out, “I love daisies.” Carefully, I placed the daisies in her outstretched hand, and watched her inhale their sweet scent.

“You know, I had a bouquet a little while ago, but it died,” the lady said, furrowing her brow. I made no attempt to clear up the fact that I had been the one who’d brought her that last bouquet.

“I used to grow daisies,” she said, “with my best friend. Do you know my best friend?”

“She was my mother,” I said steadily. I remembered the days I had spent with my mother and this lady, planting gardens.

“She hasn’t come to visit me,” the lady said sadly. “Do tell her to come.” I nodded, feeling guilty at my silent lie.

“You know,” she said in a happier tone, “my son is coming to visit me today.  Do you know him?” I thought of the small boy who had always hidden behind the shrubs, too shy to come and help water the roses.

“I remember him,” I said, looking away from her hopeful face. “He’s a very nice boy.” The lady blinked sleepily at me, and then closed her eyes. Realizing the visit had come to an end, I covered her with her blankets, and closed the door behind me as I left. I had never known the lady’s name; when I was younger, I had not cared about the little details that could always be clarified later. Eventually, I understood that sometimes, there is no ‘later’. Absorbed in my thoughts, I accidentally bumped into someone on my way down the stairs.

“Sorry,” I muttered absentmindedly. I lifted my eyes, and saw that it was the boy. He was holding a plastic bag with a small rip in the side.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, without thinking. Casually, he raised his eyebrows and gave me a small smile.

“Curiosity killed the cat,” he said, turning to go.

“Then it must be a blessing that cats have nine lives,” I retorted to his retreating back. He faltered in his steady steps, but after a moment, he continued on his way. Something fell out from the rip in his bag.

It was a yellow daisy.