This morning, the coffee pot looked different, my husband having switched out one gadget for another, far too complicated for such an early hour. And so for a change, I make black tea with a satisfying plop of heavy cream, squall of sweetener, one test sip reminding me of Mrs. Torpey, and Mrs. McGrievy, and that tall, smiling lady my friend and I visited after Catholic school. “Teens Serving the Elderly.” They only told us she’d lost her husband. Each time, in her basement apartment, she served us tea in frail china, and I told her I’d never liked tea before I met her. She put out Ritz crackers and sugared Danish cookies from a can, showed us framed photos of her son in military uniform, barely mentioning her husband. The more tea we sipped, the more she poured. Once, I thought she teared up but couldn’t be sure. After about six visits, she stopped having us come. They said she was afraid she couldn't afford to feed us. And now I’m remembering visiting those nursing homes where my great-grandmothers lived, where I first saw at a more tender age, not everyone is lucky enough to have an apartment with visitors, that sometimes old ladies walk the halls holding hands, cradle baby dolls, smile at each other and forget things. And that one time I worked in a nursing home at 16, wails of Mrs. Lions filling THOSE halls, those walls. At 101, she cried, “Just let me die.” And Gertie, my favorite, whispering every time from her elvish mouth, “I love you,” finally slipping her tattered white bed tethers and falling on my watch. The trail of blood she left. I left soon after. And now as I near closer to that age forgetting, I wonder if I’ll recognize my own grown children, if I’ll wail and want to die, or tell people I love them, carry dolls like I carried my babies, and if anyone will visit once my mind has slipped ITS tethers. I think there are worse things than rocking a plastic infant in your empty arms, or offering strangers stale ribbon candy, or biscuits and tea. I hope I tell people I love them. Or teach them to like something new. I hope I never lose my wonder in the world, even if I grieve my memory. But mostly I hope the world will remember me, FOR me, keep me comfortable in my most vulnerable years. That is my wish for me. That is my wish for the elders. -Katherine Gotthardt
Posted in Katherine's Coffeehouse, Twitter Writing Prompts
