Tuesday, August 26, 2008


"I'm so scared"
says Irene, as I pass her in her
wheelchair in the hall. I'm walking to
get some exercise and pause to listen to her
for a bit. "Stay with me," she pleads, so I
do. She's scared because she doesn't know where to go
to go shopping for her husband and her aunts. I tell her
she does not have to worry about that now, that we are
both well taken care of here and her husband and her
aunts are being taken care of elsewhere. Not knowing
anything about them I don't presume to tell her
anything else, and I listen to her
worries. How can she get downstairs? I
could tell her how to do that but I don't because
when she got down there she would still have no way
to get to a grocery store, those
days are over for her. Instead
I tell her she lives here now, and she wants to find her
bed. I'm happy that one of the workers came by and
took her there though I know she will not
stay, no, she will wheel herself back to the
crossroad of halls by the desk and try again to find out
how to get home. Oh, Irene, "home is where the
heart is," and yours I suspect is
with the dead. I do not want to help you
find it there.

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