A man of seventy-three with nothing left arranged a corridor so that a woman would walk into it with a chart in her hand.
And the thirty-two days, which I have been calling the happiest month of my life.
I have gone back through them since the January, honestly, with a calendar, because somebody asked me a question I could not answer.
He was very ill for about eleven of them. There were four days in the April when he was not really there at all.
And of the rest, I was in that room perhaps three hours a day, and a great deal of that was the two of us not talking, because he had not the breath for it.
So the happiest month of my life is, in hours, something like fifty hours of sitting next to a man in a bed, about half of it in silence.
