Silence is sometimes the largest cry of pain. She's tired. I can tell by the way her face droops just like what azaleas look like when you forget to water them. Her hair is pressed to her head and it looks like it hasn't been washed for a few days. She struggles to hold her chin up as a nurse has to try to pour water down her throat. I know that she's only got a few weeks left, but I try to put at thought out of mind. Her body looks stiff and ridged. I don't blame her for being uncomfortable, because I know that I wouldn't want to be stuck in bed all day long either. I can only imagine that the bed feels like a person is laying on a cardboard box. I know she doesn't find an inch of comfort even when those pillows surround her from every angle. The uncongenial noise of nurse's busy footsteps and stupid blaring television screens send me deep into a state of irritability. Her roommate, only about on hundred feet away, sounds as though they are about to hack up a cat and her next door neighbor likes to snore really loud. I decide that I've waited long enough. My feet click on the ice cold floor and I get close to her bedside. I bend my knee and squat down next to her. I can still see that vibrant gleam in her eyes. Though her body is failing her she can still muster up enough strength to pick up her bony fingers and touch the apple of my cheek. "Hello sweetheart, I'm glad you came."