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Carolyn

She lives at the nursing home in a padded wheelchair, legs curled up, feet bare.  Wiry gray hair, teeth worn down from grinding.  All day she barks, “Eh, eh, eh, eh!” In bed, she continues.  Does she sleep or keep barking?  I don’t know; I’m not there at night.

Her name is Carolyn. The staff and the other residents ignore her noise.  It is part of the day’s sounds, along with carts wheeling down the halls, announcements over the PA system, and the eternal beeping of call buttons.

The first time, on my way out, I asked her, “Are you singing?” “Singing,” she said, and after a pause, continued to bark.

The next time, I stopped and said, “Hello, Carolyn. I’ll sing you a song.”  I sang, “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.” 

“Sunshine,” she said, and moved her lips with some of the lyrics.

After one chorus and a verse, I said, “I have to go now, but next time I’ll sing you another song.”

“Thank you,” she said. A conversation.  An appropriate response.

I was surprised.  And I wept as I waited for the elevator.