nursing home

Music in the hour of waiting

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A youngish man, the music therapist

passes out maracas

to folks in wheelchairs, side by side,

many doze, a few eyes are open

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He glides through the oldies,

Patsy Cline Crazy, Everly Brothers Dream,

These boots are made for walkin’

under the boardwalk

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David, who rarely sits,

shuffles across the room,

smelling of shit—again—

Someone alerts the staff

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Leaving on a jet plane

no one here will fly anywhere

Talking ‘bout my girl

No one here talks much

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The music therapist always ends

with Amazing Grace, this being

a Catholic facility, those

who are here were once found,

but now are lost

Carolyn

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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.

Facility

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They say, put him in memory care.

You need to, they say, it’s too hard.

You have no freedom.  We see your misery.

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Someone recommends a place.

Her friend’s sister is a resident there.

I make an appointment for a tour.

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A long driveway, wide trim lawn, a pond.

a ten-gallon fish tank burbles in the lobby.

The walls need paint.

Brown streaks the bathroom door.

A peek into a private room:

all roses and chintz and lace curtains.

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An Asian man sits alone in the dining room,

behind a transparent plastic screen.

His expression is blank, distant.

Two men slump in the TV room.

Two women play Scrabble.

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A walnut-faced Italian woman in a wheelchair,

fingers like roots, complains,

I didn’t have my breakfast!

A bit of egg sticks to her pants.

She says, I wish I were dead.

Where do I go now?

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The walls leak loneliness.

They are all waiting.

Will someone who loves me come?

Does anyone know me now?

Who remembers my story?

Will tomorrow be the same as today?

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