—I knew of a young woman whose hair turned white overnight when she saw her husband kiss her daughter on the mouth.

Esperanza took a tissue from the doctor.

—And there was a man who molted when he found out he was adopted.

Esperanza gasped, combing through her hair, caressing her arms, taking a peek in the mirror to make sure she was intact.

—Relax, Miss Colón, these are rare instances. Flukes. Be assured that Don Chan‘s body is catching up with the time he has lived. You have to worry about yourself. He reached out to hold Esperanza.

She noticed the doctor‘s liver spots, his soft skin, and looked into his gray eyes for assurance.

—Maybe Don Chan realized that he‘s closer to dying than he thought. That always happens at funerals. We mourn as much for our last days as we do for the dead, he said. —You have a long life ahead of you, Esperanza. Live it fully. It looks like the old man can take care of himself.

Esperanza kissed the doctor on the cheek. She felt a wave of relief and walked with Don Chan back home thinking about the words: Live it fully.

While they walked, Esperanza looked over at the frail Don Chan and felt the burden of his skeleton on her back. She knew very well the smell of a human being who no longer cared to mask his scent with cologne and deodorant, who no longer had the energy to bathe and could only wash with the help of a home attendant and wet towels. Human shit and piss. Old piss on sheets, dead-skin flakes, crusty eyes, long nose hairs that would need to be trimmed, his beard would need to be shaved, his nails clipped.

Ay, ay, ay, thought Esperanza, remembering the old man she took care of in Queens who was eighty-eight years old. He didn‘t talk, eyes always wandering, holding on to any image that resembled something familiar. Who even after a bath and lots of baby powder reeked of decay.

—Ay, ay, ay, Esperanza sighed, breathing heavily, feeling her stomach stress the thin belt she bought on sale at Macy‘s; her favorite belt that she was able to purchase for an additional 15 percent deduction with the coupon she received in the mail.

—Ay diosito, why me? she said, starting to hyperventilate. What if Don Chan became bedridden? But the doctor told her she had to take care of herself, not worry about him. To live her life fully.

She walked into her apartment and sat on the plastic-covered sofa cushion and noticed how uncomfortable it was. She unzipped the plastic slipcover and plopped herself back on the pillow. She bounced lightly on the crushed velvet. It felt wonderful and soft. What was she preserving the furniture for anyway? Why hadn‘t she taken off the plastic sooner? It had covered the sofa for ten years. She had the right to sit on her own sofa and not have her thighs peel off some stupid plastic.