Today at the Birch Street Nursing Home, Mrs. Lowe asked me to write a letter to her son, Joseph. She told me she'd write it herself, but her hand was a little shaky and she was having trouble seeing without her glasses. I don't remember all of it, but in the letter Mrs. Lowe asked her son to come get her. She had me write that she was sick when he dropped her off two weeks ago, but it was just a cold, and she is no longer contagious and can move back in with him and his wife. I slipped the letter into the mailbox on my way home.
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