“You love to read, don’t you? I’ll bet you dream of writing, too.”

I’d secretly been penning sappy poetry since the age of seven and changing song lyrics in my head to suit every situation. My tenth grade English teacher, Mrs. Herold, insisted I had enormous talent and imagination. My short story on mothers and daughters made her cry. Of course I dreamed of holding my own book in my hands.

“Doesn’t everyone, Violet?”

“Maybe,” she smiled, “but they actually pursue it. You’re spending your days tending to God’s waiting room.”

“I love my job.”

“Yes, but you have a knack for painting pictures with words. You’re obliged to use it. That short story you showed me was as good as anything Flannery O’Connor wrote.”

She’d been an aspiring novelist in her younger days and encouraged me every chance she got. “Encouraged” is too mild a word. She pushed me with the subtlety of a tsunami.

“Honey,” she said, watching me dab sweet potato casserole from Mr. Hardy’s chin, “have you started writing a novel yet?” She swept her chin-length hair back, lustrous and snow-white but immersed in a pale field of lavender before Kelly Osbourne even thought of it. Her brown eyes sparkled at the men who joined her in the dining room every day at the elderly equivalent of the Cool Kids’ Table. Johnny was always seated beside Violet, though Sam was obviously highly favored, too. James, Clifton and Harvey joined in the daily adoration.

“Not yet, Violet. I’m still trying to imagine the story I’ll tell.”

“You don’t need to imagine a thing,” she nodded and gave my hand a fluttery pat. “My life would make a pretty interesting novel.” She turned her gaze to Mr. Raintree, who smiled shyly and regarded his lime jello. The other men exchanged knowing smiles.

She had no family or visitors save one nephew through marriage who trotted in occasionally bearing a pot of (predictable) African violets. She accepted them with a gracious smile but walked them over to our long-term care patients as soon as Herb left. “He thinks he’s in the will,” she said, shaking her head at her nephew’s retreating form, strutting in tight jeans and a shrunken black tee shirt. “Herb’s a fawning fake. Look at him...thinks he’s Simon Cowell. His hair is dyed the color of burnt toast. I swear, Ronni, he tried out a British accent on me today. Called me his favorite Aaauhnt-eee Vee.” Violet laughed and whispered into my ear, “Fairfield Springs is getting a lot of my money. Y’all are going to need a new entertainment room when I’m gone.”

“We sure will, Violet,” I told her. “You are the life in this place.”