The residents of the very-assisted wing of the assisted living home gather in the living room to wait for dinner. Their walkers and some wheelchairs fill any empty spaces. Some have come on their own, starting almost an hour ago; others are brought by the attendants. The lone man came first, and sits sleeping in his chair in the middle of them all.
A few of them smile tentatively as a new person arrives, but they do not talk among themselves. I smile and speak, but only one responds. My mother, having one of her better days, watches them with bright eyes from her chair across the room, but never speaks.
The television is on, its volume high to help their aged ears, but no one seems to notice it. The home’s pervasive odor of disinfectant pervades all. I wish for the enticing smells of food, to rouse their appetites. But it has been cooked elsewhere, and is probably too bland to have much aroma. Soon they’ll move to the dining room, seldom speaking except to staff. The nurses tease them and cajole them to eat, trying to make this a happy time. At this, their last time for the day to be part of a social group, they mostly ignore each other, no longer trying to connect to their fellow patients. Soon they will return to their rooms, the last ritual of the day done. Every day ends like every other, as they wait to be freed of their burden of life.
--Charlene Hurt, 31 August 2008
[retrospective #5 in a series on Charlene's writings]