My First Purse
Short Fiction
I had just finished a chapter when Hani walked in the room. Hani was my favorite LPN. She always greeted us with a smile, seemed happy to chat with me, and she had a lyrical south African accent that I loved.
“How are you doing today?” Hani boomed at Mom. One of my many annoyances was that every person who worked here raised their voice with every interaction, even though there was nothing wrong with Mom’s hearing. Occupational habit, I imagine. Mom gazed at her and smiled, but didn’t answer. She rarely talked anymore.
“Hani, how was your time off last week?” I asked.
I worked hard to get to know the staff. Mom had been at the nursing home for ten years already. I think part of me hoped that if they thought of me as a nice person — maybe even a friend — they might be extra kind to her.
I had been reading aloud to Mom a few afternoons a week for a while now, even though she slept through most of it these days. The idea came to me when someone mentioned The Little House on the Prairie books and I remembered Mom reading them to me when I was little, mother and daughter, snuggled up on my bed.
“Oh fine,” Hani answered. “We didn’t go anywhere, but my mom came to spend time with the kids. We hung out at the pool a lot.”
