And then I do what I’ve started to do on my visits to my grandmother. I sing

I walk into my grandmother’s bedroom.

Her Native American aide, Ortins, is there. I’m glad it’s an Ortins day — she is quiet and does her job with dignity and respect.

I head over to the recliner, where Bobby is resting. She’s wearing a new dark blue velour bandana and a green cotton floral snap-down housecoat that’s three sizes too big. Her eyes are open but vacant: empty, still and glasslike.

“Bobby,” I say. I wait. “Bobby,” I try again. Not a twitch, not a movement, nothing that indicates that she hears a grandchild. I know conversation is useless. I’m not one to chitchat or offer high-pitched, one-sided chatter.

I take Bobby’s hands. Her skin is tissue-paper thin and translucent, but her arm feels heavy. I squeeze. No response. I’m quiet.

And then I do what I’ve started to do on my visits to my grandmother. I sing.

I start with “Ani Maamin.” It feels right to sing of Mashiach, to proclaim belief that even after all my grandmother has been through, after all our nation has endured, better times will come. I sing the low part twice. At the high part I choke up. It’s lonely, this concert of one.