The Wordsmith's Forge

A middle-aged, gray-haired woman with a tentative smile and a recalcitrant rollator eases into the cuddle room. The seat of the rollator is overflowing with bowls of crudites, cucumber spears and slices of jicama to go with the enormous bowl of hummus and a smaller bowl of olive tapenade. Draped over her shoulders like a cape is a fuzzy lap blanket. She sets the food in a safe place, out of foot traffic, and makes her way to an overstuffed chair. "This way, I can brush hair if someone wants," she offers shyly.