Hospitals have a particular hour — not on any clock, but felt — when the visitors thin out and the only sound left is machines agreeing quietly with themselves.
I learned to love that hour. It was the only time my grandmother spoke plainly, without performing wellness for an audience of well-wishers.
"Bring grapes next time," she said once, during that hour, "not because I'll eat them. Because rooms like this should have something round and green in them."
I brought grapes every visit after that. She never ate one. They sat in their plastic clamshell on the windowsill, going soft, doing exactly the job she'd assigned them.