Some assignments stay in your journal.

Others stay in your heart.

This one did both.

I received a call to a hospice wing in a care facility. It was newly opened. Quiet. Tucked away. The kind of hallway where footsteps feel louder and time moves differently.

He was there alone.

The closest available bed had been more than 200 miles from his home. His wife could not travel. She was preparing for her own surgery. His adult children lived out of state. The only people coming and going were caregivers and a hospice nurse.

My first appointment was simple on paper. He needed to remove his name from the deed to their home, leaving his wife as sole owner.

He had the document prepared. It was neat. Organized. Ready.

He was not.

He told me about his leukemia. A few months, he said. He could still walk with a walker, but slowly. His balance was unsteady. His body had begun the quiet work of shutting down.

We completed the notarization. It was professional. Proper. By the book.

But befor...