Hahn.

Woke up this morning feeling completely unmotivated, turned off my alarm, and layed in bed for quite some time before falling back asleep. Walked around my apartment for a few hours, watching tv and talking to Jake off and on. My mother came home around twelve because she was able to take the next few days off.

Tore apart everything, frantically looking for that folded piece of orange paper, labeled "Hahn".
Thanksgiving, 2007.
We're at the nursing home, there are small tables arranged everywhere, set for the number of planned guests for that person. There is plastic silverware wrapped in colored paper napkins, with a paper turkey print out wrapped around it.
In the center of the table is a decorated card, with the last name of whomever you are visiting.
She didn't remember me, she wasn't doing well.
After dinner we got up to leave and I took the card off the table and put it in my purse.
I've been walking around with it for months in my make up bag.
Just days ago I had looked at it, and now, it's no longer there, and neither is she.
When I tell my mother this she replies, trying to make light of the matter, "How ironic! The cards gone, and so is she!"

The funeral is on Monday.