The next time I see her is at the summer convention in Anchorage.  She sits in a wheel chair on the floor of the arena.  She only stands for brief periods. 

       What do I say?  I bring my vacation photos to share with her.  I summon my courage.  I say, "Hello."

       I know what I'll do.  I'll leave the album and pick it up later.

       Bess points to the empty chair beside her.  "Please sit down." 

       I feel off guard.  I hadn't intended to stay for more than a minute.  How can I refuse?  She means so much to me, and she has always come to my aid when I needed her.  In my recollection, this is the first time she's ever ask me for anything.  I sit beside her.

       Her skin looks fragile and delicate.  At times her eyes appear vacant like I've never seen before.  Walnut-sized tumors are visible under her skin.  Her left arm looks almost paralyzed.  She tires easily, but she tells me, "I want to squeeze every little bit I can out of this convention."

       I feel guilty.  I worry that my presence overtires her. 

       Everyone knows.  People come down to the floor of the arena and speak with her briefly.  I try to take a picture of each group that comes to greet her.  I envision a scrapbook that we will share together later while she is recuperating.

       As I leave her, I say, "Call me when we get home.  I'll bring the pictures by."

       "I will." she promises.

       I return to my seat in the balconey.  I sob.  My sorrow is inconsolable.