It reminds them of their own mortality. So I sit with them and read to lessen theirfears.
Be composed‐‐be at ease with me... Not till the sun excludes you do I exclude you,Nottill the waters refuse to glisten for you and the leaves to rustle for you, do my wordsrefuse to glisten and rustle for you. And I read, to let them know who I am. I wanderall night in my vision,... Bending with open eyes over the shut eyes of sleepers,Wandering and confused, lost to myself, ill‐assorted, contradictory, Pausing, gazing,bending, and stopping.
If she could, my wife would accompany me on my evening excursions, for one of herMany loves was poetry. Thomas, Whitman, Eliot, Shakespeare, and King David of thePsalms.
Lovers of words, makers of language. Looking back, I am surprised by my passion forit, and sometimes I even regret it now. Poetry brings great beauty to life, but alsogreat sadness, and I'm not sure it's a fair exchange for someone my age. A man shouldenjoy other things if he can; he should spend his final days in the sun.
Mine will be spent by a reading lamp. I shuffle toward her and sit in the chair besideher bed. My back aches when I sit. I must get a new cushion for this chair, I remindmyself for the hundredth time. I reach for her hand and take it, bony and fragile. Itfeels nice. She responds with a twitch, and gradually her thumb begins to softly rubmy finger. I do not speak until she does; this I have learned. Most days I sit in silenceuntil the sun goes down, and on days like those I know nothing about her.
Minutes pass before she finally turns to me. She is crying. I smile and release herhand, then reach in my pocket. I take out a handkerchief and wipe at her tears. Shelooks at me as I do so, and I wonder what she is thinking.
"That was a beautiful story."
A light rain begins to fall. Little drops tap gently on the window. I take her handagain. It is going to be a good day, a very good day. A magical day. I smile, I can'thelp it.
"Yes, it is," I tell her.
"Did you write it?" she asks. Her voice is like a whisper, a light windflowing though the leaves. "Yes," I answer.
She turns toward the nightstand. Her medicine is in a little cup. Mine too. Littlepills, colors like a rainbow so we won't forget to take them. They bring mine herenow, to her room, even though they're not supposed to.
"I've heard it before, haven't I?'
"Yes," I say again, just as I do every time on days like these. I have learned to bepatient.
She studies my face. Her eyes are as green as ocean waves.
"It makes me feel less afraid," she says.
"I know." I nod, rocking my head softly.
She turns away, and I wait some more. She releases my hand and reaches forher water glass. It is on her nightstand, next to the medicine. She takes a sip. "Isit a true story?" She sits up a little in her bed and takes another, drink. Her bodyis still strong. "I mean, did you know these people?"
"Yes," I say again. I could say more, but usually I don't. She is still beautiful.
She asks the obvious:
"Well, which one did she finally marry?"
I answer: "The one who was right for her." "Which one was that?"
I smile. "You'll know," I say quietly, "by the end of the day. You'll know."
She does not know what to think about this but does not question me further.
Instead she begins to fidget. She is thinking of a way to ask me another question,though she isn't sure how to do it. Instead she chooses to put it off for a moment andreaches for one of the little paper cups.
"Is this mine?"
"No, this one is," and I reach over and push her medicine toward her. I cannot grabit with my fingers. She takes it and looks at the pills. I can tell by the way she islooking at them that she has no idea what they are for. I use both hands to pick upmy cup and dump the pills into my mouth. She does the same. There is no fighttoday. That makes it easy. I raise my cup in a mock toast and wash the grittyflavor from my mouth with my tea. It is getting colder. She swallows on faith andwashes them down with more water.
A bird starts to sing outside the window, and we both turn our heads. We sit quietlyfor a while, enjoying something beautiful together. Then it is lost, and she sighs.
"I have to ask you something else," she says. "Whatever it is, I'll try to answer." "It'shard, though."
She does not look at me, and I cannot see her eyes. This is how she hides her thoughts.
Some things never change.
"Take your time," I say. I know what she will ask.
Finally she turns to me and looks into my eyes. She offers a gentle smile, the kind youshare with a child, not a lover.
"I don't want to hurt your feelings because you've been so nice to me, but..." Iwait. Her words will hurt me. They will tear a piece from my heart and leave ascar.
"Who are you?"
We have lived at Creek side Extended Care Facility for three years now. It was herdecision to come here, partly because it was near our home, but also because shethought it would be easier for me. We boarded up our home because neither of uscould bear to sell it, signed some papers, and just like that we received a place to liveand die in exchange for some of the freedom for which we had worked a lifetime. Shewas right to do this, of course. There is no way I could have made it alone, for sicknesshas come to us, both of us. We are in the final minutes in the day of our lives, and theclock is ticking. Loudly. I wonder if I am the only one who can hear it. A throbbing paincourses through my fingers, and it reminds me that we have not held hands withfingers interlocked since we moved here.
I am sad about this, but it is my fault, not hers. It is arthritis in the worst form,rheumatoid and advanced. My hands are misshapen and grotesque now, and theythrob during most of my waking hours. I look at them and want them gone,amputated, but then I would not be able to do the little things I must do. So I use my
claws, as I call them sometimes, and every day I take her hands despite the pain, andI do my best to hold them because that is what she wants me to do.
Although the Bible says man can live to be 120, I don't want to, and I don't think mybody would make it even if I did. It is falling apart, dying one piece at a time, steadyerosion on the inside and at the joints. My hands are useless, my kidneys arebeginning to fail, and my heart rate is decreasing every month. Worse, I have canceragain, this time of the prostate. This is my third bout with the unseen enemy, and itwill take me eventually, though not till I say it is time. The doctors are worried aboutme, but I am not. I have no time for worry in this twilight of my life. Of our fivechildren, four are still living, and though it is hard for them to visit, they come often,and for this I am thankful. But even when they aren't here, they come alive in mymind every day, each of them, and they bring to mind the smiles and tears that comewith raising a family. A dozen pictures line the walls of my room. They are myheritage, my contribution to the world. I am very proud. Sometimes I wonder whatmy wife thinks of them as she dreams, or if she thinks of them at all, or if she evendreams. There is so much about her I don't understand anymore.
I wonder what my daddy would think of my life and what he would do if he were me.
I have not seen him for fifty years and he is now but a shadow in my thoughts. I cannotpicture him clearly anymore; his face is darkened as if a light shines from behind him.
