Come To Me, Bend To Me
My Brother John's face is a welcome sight. I can't put my finger on the cause of the tension I'm feeling, but it's intense. My jaw aches from clenching my teeth together, and I have to make a point to relax my furrowed brow. My girlfriends say that causes wrinkles.
This place smells like urine mixed into an industrial cleanser. I don't know why I'm here, but John's presence makes me feel like I'm in the right place. Was I supposed to meet him here? He's smiling, and seems like he knew he'd see me here. This must have been planned.
When did John get so old? His jet black hair has faded to a salt and pepper. He's put on weight. His face has been chiseled by the hands of time. It's nice to see him in casual clothes. He was in the service for years. I was convinced we'd lose him that way. But here he is, smiling at me, an older man that I ever imagined he’d be. Jesus, do I look that old? I reach my hand up to my forehead and manually smooth out the creases from tension.
There's a girl with John. She is far too young to be his girlfriend. She has a catholic school uniform on, for crying out loud. She looks to be in her late teens. Who is this girl? She seems nervous and uncomfortable as John comes closer to kiss me hello. She stands a few feet away as he settles next to me in a chair.
It must be all the old people around here. Young girls are nervous around old people. They consider advanced age a disease. And these people aren’t just old. Dementia has settled in on them profoundly. Some just sit and stare. Some are screaming paranoid accusations at the nurses. Some are sitting in their own filth with tears on their faces. Do they even know they are crying? Which one are John and I here to visit? AND WHO IS THIS GIRL?
John has brought food, and sets it out. I’m not hungry, but he’s so sweet to have thought of me, and it seems rude not to eat. So I let him feed me spoonful after spoonful. He calls me “Sweetheart,” and it feels so good to hear it that I don’t care that everything in this place tastes the way it smells. The girl just watches me eat, which I find disturbing, but she’s smiling and John seems to want her here. He doesn’t call her “sweetheart” and he doesn’t feed her anything, so I am comfortable with the pecking order here.
But then he asks her to sing. She clearly doesn’t want to, and says as much, but he melts her resolve with a smile and a few heartfelt “come on”s. He tells me she recently performed in a musical based in Scotland, as if that should peak my interest. I’m pretty sure I’m not Scottish but I know someone who is. Who do I know that’s Scottish? It’s right on the tip of my tongue… Damn, I can’t remember. It’ll come to me. Give me a second.
She begins to sing. It’s not a song I know, but it’s beautiful. It’s a love song. Her voice is clear and reedy and makes me ache. Something about the tune, or her voice, or the pride in John’s face makes my throat catch. My eyes fill and I try to blink back the tears but they fall. I can’t catch my breath. I’m sobbing. She’s still singing but now she’s crying too. John’s hand grabs my own. But now I know it’s not John. It’s my son Kevin. This girl, it’s his daughter, my granddaughter. She’s gotten older, she’s almost a woman.
I notice the age spots on my hands- brown stains, like a Dalmatian’s. That is, if a Dalmatian’s coat marked a condition that gave it the memory of a goldfish. I look up at Kevin- his salt and pepper hair and chiseled face. He squints into my eyes and he knows that I’ve made a rare trip up to the surface.
“She’s just beautiful, Kevin.” I watch as the sound of his name on my lips lands on him like an unexpected rainfall in the desert. I remember you, Kevin. I know who are. I know you are here. I see the agony drain from his eyes and I realize young girls are right. Advanced age is a disease. But I’m not the one it is killing.
The song has ended and he is squeezing my hand so tightly, as though he can hold my clarity if his grasp is tight enough. And I try to focus on the three of us, three generations, holding hands and trying desperately to hold onto the moment. I want to stay. I’m trying to stay. I’m trying….
… I clench my teeth as I look at my Brother John. I’m so tense. If I could just remember why I’m so agitated I could calm myself down. It’s right here. It’s right at the tip of my tongue. Ugh. Why can’t I remember? And who is this young girl with John?
