FFT

They call it a Home for the Aged, whenever
it's mentioned (and mentally file it away
under D.. for Decrepit. And Dreary. And Death.)
while they fight off their hidden reluctance to stay
for that duty-bound visit. "But really, it isn't
so bad, is it, dear?" with eyes tactful, averted
from half-emptied bedpan.
                                                   "Young Lisa has plans
to be married this spring..." (and the subject is skirted
of why Auntie Mae must be strapped to her chair,
for she wanders, you see. Can't be helped. Very sad.)

and they chatter, too quickly, avoiding those pauses
- so awkward - and leave, feeling inwardly glad.

And Grace, in Room 10, whispers low to her husband
some secret - laughs softly, caressing his face
with her words. Now he answer her; smiling, she nods -
she's along... for besides her lies nothing but space,
He's been dead 7 years, you see. She hasn't heard.
Or, at least, not a part of her anyone sees.
Bernadette, in the next bed, turns slightly away
and tried vainly to sleep, block it out... ill at ease,
for she knows. She can't walk now, or see that well
- slightly incontinent, too - but her mind is quite clear,
and for Grace she feels pity - or anger.
                        Or nothing.
               She wishes, at times, she could no longer hear.

In the hallway sits Jim, in his chair, grinning happily
(foolishly, some say). He raises an arm,
hand outstretched, tried to touch you - you shrink back with fear
that is nameless, instinctive - he meant you no harm.
The fingers have withered to claws, yellowed bones
and blue veins showing through the translucent, frail skin
               (is it for reassurance you glance at your own
youthful flesh?). You recover, returning his grin,
greet him gently, then leave him - untouched - as he was.

              You find yourself walking more quickly, because
              of that growing uneasiness buried within.
If only those buzzers would stop - and that smell
(undefined, only found in one ward) and the light
that keeps flashing above that man's room.
                                                                    But you know,
deep inside, that it's none of those things that you fight
every time you walk in here. It's something abstract,
yet more real.

                        Can it be that they all were once young?
- or did nature create separate species? That woman,
right there - she has eyes like your own...
                                                                   ...but you've flung
the thought from you, its message too strange. With a glance
at your watch, you move into the stairwell, then past
the reception desk into the bustling street,
thinking how you must hurry.
                                                                         The time goes so fast...

- Beverly Wilson