Old One

Madelyn is my old one. Because she is old, I will always be young. Now that I have entered my fifties, I am aware of my own aging. When I see my reflection in the store window unexpectedly, I am surprised to see my mother’s face.

With Madelyn, I am a sprite. I am young and smooth skinned and I bring the world to her one room. She loves to hear what I have been doing. 
“Begin at the beginning and don’t leave anything out,” she says as she sits upright in her corner chair. “How are the girls?”

At 95 years old she lives in one room. The nurses are busy across the hall but in this room are remnants of a long life lived. The charcoal portrait of her father hangs on the wall. On her desk with the faded tan blotter, is a box that is jammed with letters. She has many friends who keep in touch with her. On her bureau lies a hand mirror, earrings and grey hairpins are scattered about.

Books are stacked by her bed. The New Yorker magazine is folded back. Sections of The New York Times pile up. The faces of grandchildren and great grandchildren smile from frames on the bookshelf.

Her life, once so full of dance, drama, young friends, worry and responsibility has distilled down to this. Reading is her greatest pleasure she says but I suspect that she isn’t able to recall much of the detail of what she has read. Perhaps she reads the words over and over for the sheer pleasure of the sound and sight of them. The weight of the book in her hand. Books and written words are like old friends.

She looks up and asks again, “How are the girls?” I tell her, a shorter version this time, and she smiles to hear familiar words, to see me speak, to be in conversation. Her short term memory is weak but the details from her younger years, particularly her childhood are crystal clear.

“Darling, it was so sweet of you to come,” she says as I reach for my coat and begin my good byes. “Give my love to David and the girls”.

I kiss her paper cheeks, first one then the other and turn and walk down the long hall. She used to walk me to the door, but now she waves from her chair. I walk away alone and go blinking out into the sunny too bright parking lot. I have been granted another day of youthful freedom reminded that one day, it will be otherwise.