She is a survivor. Her life is sadness. She wants to die. I tell her I understand and I really do. Our visits consist of her tears and me holding her hand and telling her how sorry I am for her pain. She thanks God for the blessings she has had and now asks God to heed her prayers to end her suffering.

We laughed today. We shared recipes. Or for that matter, she shared recipes. Recipes, I am certain, that were never committed to paper. I knew from the gleam in her eyes and the slight animation I had never witnessed before that she was sharing the recipes from the generations of women in her family.

My friends know that I do not cook. When invited for a party or dinner, I am the one who brings the drinks. When asked to bring Dollar Rolls for a Super Bowl Party, I called my girlfriend from the store to say I couldn’t find any rolls for a dollar. That, my friends, is classic Elizabeth.

All this is about to change. I am going to make matzah ball soup in honor of the resident I sat with today. She inspired me in ways she cannot possibly know. I will cherish her gifts standing in front of my stove. She is a blessing as was her mother and her mother.