Her slim, veined hand rested
in mine, as we sat
on the generic floral
couch in the wood-trimmed
lounge.
A piano nearby hinted
that Uncle Bob or Aunt Becky
might drop by unannounced
for a Sunday afternoon visit in
the parlor
though only a perky nurse-in-training
poked her head through
the open doorway to be sure
we were okay.
We weren’t.
But a teenager in newly purchased scrubs
couldn’t help me navigate
the roles we had assumed.
I reported about school and
church and what was in the CrockPot
for dinner,
thinking she might be interested, but
mostly just to have some noise.
She nodded slowly.
Her warm fingers wiggled in mine,
and I saw her silver
amethyst ring was gone,
the one that had fit so snuggly when
she was a painter and a writer,
but had twirled around and around
so freely, so alarmingly,
these past few years.
Was it in her room? Or on the hand
of a roaming resident who
had slid it onto her own finger,
remembering a loved one
from a distant past?
It didn’t matter.
She
didn’t remember
or didn’t care.
Her eyes twinkled as she leaned
into me to share
a secret.
“This isn’t really me,
you know,” she whispered.
Startled, I smiled back to
be kind.
“I’m just playing a part now,”
she confessed, content,
with her hands in her lap,
waiting expectantly.
A streak of sunlight illuminated
the room, and
suddenly, I did know.
My eyes twinkled, too, as I
squeezed her hand and blinked away
the tears.
She knew the real soul buried inside
that aging outer shell– intensely driven,
passionately generous, always learning,
growing—was still there.
And I did, too.
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