When I was young, I would often (without a choice) accompany my grandparents to what we always called an "old folks home" after church. Grandma and Grandpa would bring a guitar and an autoharp and play hymns--by request if they came from the audience. Sometimes my mom would play along on a badly tuned piano, if she was feeling confident that day, which was rare. Always, we were expected to sing along. I dreaded every trip.
The people scared me in their various states of dependence. Wheelchairs, walkers, canes, slobber, wordless cries of dementia, the smells of bodily waste and Lysol all crowd my memories of those trips. Before we reached the gathering of people, there was always the stale smell of cafeteria food; bland and fibery. As I write this, it occurs to me that these trips are quite likely to have been a major contributor to my distaste for hymns.
Last week I went to visit my grandfather at his new home, an independent living division of a local retirement community. As I drove in--on my scooter as usual--the smell of "old folks home" food entrenched itself in my nostrils until I was well past the primary care facility. I found Grandpa's new place (Grandma died--I can't even remember when; 2001 or 2002. Grandpa is remarried now) and went to the sitting room in the back where he was eating a roll and watching the ducks on the pond. He greeted me with the slightly confused laughter that has marked my last few conversations with him. We talked for an hour or so and I headed on my way.
On my way back through the complex I couldn't help but feel sad about the toll age has taken on him, and how close he is to sitting in the seats of those to whom he used to sing so many years ago. Time marches on, and age erodes our faculties as surely as the sea wears away the land. Sadly, but almost predictably, no amount of time I see him in his last years will ease the pain of the years we can't live again; the years that we cannot hold more closely.
Such is this life.
Be well.
well said. well said.
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