Margaret reaches out from her reclining wheelchair as I pass by. Always she is reaching, extending her good arm and not the contracted one curled up against her breast. When I stop long enough, when I come close enough to her, she touches my face. She brushes my cheeks, running her fingers tenderly down my jawline. I reach back: her cheeks are soft, smooth, and ruddy, like halves of a pomegranate. Her eyes meet mine. She often looks searchingly. Eyes wide open, she seems perpetually surprised.