May 10 - The Seer

He was old.
Nobody knew for sure how old, but for as long as anyone could remember, he'd been close enough to death for it to reach out and ruffle his few remaining hairs. And yet--there's no other way to put it--he kept on not dying.
It was beyond his caretakers' comprehension.
He didn't eat--no teeth. He was fed intravenously.
Never left his bed.
Never talked. He'd lost his larynx to throat cancer years ago.
Every day was the same. He lay in bed. Unless there were visitors, the only sounds came from the medical equipment and old Chinese music that played at a low volume.
His eyes were cloudy and grey, and usually clenched shut. He was legally blind.
His skin stretched over his face so tightly that it looked translucent over his cheekbones.
His torso was so emaciated you could almost see his organs. Sallow skin clung to his ribcage and wispy white hairs protruded from his droopy brown nipples. Both his legs had been amputated several years ago, bit by bit. First the toes, then the feet, shins, above the knees, etc. All that was left were rumors of two bony nubs coming out of his waist. His right arm had gone in similar piecemeal fashion. Only the pointer finger remained on his left hand.
He took visitors, mostly from the Chinese immigrant population that comprised the bulk of his neighborhood. Whenever anyone came in, he or she would ask his caretakers--his three great nieces and a day nurse--if he was sleeping or awake.
"Neither," they would say sometimes.
"Both," they would say the rest of the time.
Visitors would ask him questions about the past, the future, and unseen things happening back in China.
As they told their stories, he lay in bed, eyes clenched shut--no movement except his jaw, which moved rigorously even though his mouth was closed.
Minutes would pass after they'd told their stories: no sound except the medical equipment and the Chinese music if they'd forgotten to turn it down. Then suddenly, his one remaining finger would tap out a brief Morse code response to the question. Very often the response was cryptic, but there were no follow-up questions.
Most people made their inquiries in Chinese, but sometimes second or third generation kids used English. He responded to their questions, even though he'd never learned English.
Most of his family had either passed away or gone back to China. Of the ones who were still around, nobody had known about his gift until after his health went bad.
Nobody kept track of how accurate his responses were, but there was never more than a day that went by when he didn't have a visitor.