Tiny anchors

In the late 1990s, I spent one day a week visiting with and helping an elderly friend named Lucy. She lived alone in a big colonial house near the city and each time I arrived, I’d find her waiting in her favorite wingback chair, all dressed up, wearing a big smile.

Lucy was always sitting on the porch. She lived in this window-lined room because the sunlight gave her hope. Next to her chair stood a small TV table – the center of her world – a place filled with the accoutrements that kept her da...