She'll only watch channel six, my granmother, so she's staring at football. My parents wheel her out the door and I follow; the hallway rings rhythmically, call buttons crying out, Lift me, move me, I need my pills. In the parking lot, my father scoops her from the chair. They waltz a circle till she's been turned enough, and he collapses her into the front seat. She's accustomed to the wheelchair now, not like years ago when she didn't want to go out. People stared, she said. Today she reads out loud all the signs in the mall, One Day Sale, Dresses 50% Off, chuckles a little, and spotting Tweety Brid, she pleads, "Buy it for Roxy." Mom treats her to a hot fudge sundae from Dairy Queen and she spoons down the whole thing, dribbling chocolate across her pink flowered sweatshirt again. I know she longs to go home to a white house and a blind old dog, but she stopped begging months ago. Sally the nurse asks if she had a nice time; my mother knows her name, knows all their names. The TV is still on, and we kiss her goodbye, but already she’s gone dancing, smiling a little, and tomorrow we won’t have been here, just commercials for stores she shopped in once or twice and always left empty-handed.