Marian

The following is a work in progress my book, "The Sweetest Part of the Bread." I'm really contemplating changing the entire thing to something that's more geared around the Alzheimer's Poetry Project. Maybe a subtitle like ": My time with the Alzheimer's Poetry Project." I don't know. I'm playing with it and that's ok. Heck maybe even a novella? Anyway here you go:
(note the conversation sections are still needing to be transcribed)

Marian

I sing when I see her.

We find each other, in this

shared heart of wonder, as

two children arriving

at a playground.

Day One:

The family room was safe. The place where visitors and residents could gather in private to hopefully laugh, inevitably cry. The small six foot by eight foot solace stocked with fake flowers and Norman Rockwell prints is standard issue in most Memory Care Units across the country. I sit and wait for my lady. It is in these moments I feel truly young and healthy; still able to recognize a clock, pronounce the word chair or give an object its proper title. Before leaving the house my oldest son wondered where i was off to this time. "To Talk to a friend honey." I say. "Are you going to do poetry?" attempting to stall my leaving and prolong our playtime. "No, just meet and talk honey." The door to the family room opened behind me. I turn armed with a hug and smile to greet my new friend. The cheerful nurse segues with a robust tone, "You have someone here to see you Marian." "Oh?" she replies with child like wonder and nervousness. With her lips tucked around her gums and her eyes in their glassy dance, she smiles a classic 'old lady' smile and returns the hug one armed, the other needed to balance with her walker. She smells of damp wool. Her purple shirt and blue jeans hang upon her thin frame. The distance from our embrace to her chair is short, so Marian leans forward and shuffles, both hands gripping her walker, to the open chair opposite me. And after a composed flop into the chair, she gives her hair a Greta Garbo flip of the head with a poignant glance to the ceiling for her first line. Marian finishes her entrance tucking her thin peppery hair behind her ears. It had been years since a salon. I sit and smile at her beauty. My joy is coming from a place I've never questioned. Before words from either of us dance their customary jig around the room, I take what I call a "forever second" to receive and acknowledge Marian's beauty and wisdom.

I am here for you Marian. I am a student here to be taught. Thank you for your wisdom.

Only the chattering of distant nurses and the cliched ticking of the rooms wall clock reminds me we are still here. Marian smiles again. "You sure are beautiful." I say. Marian's shoulders hunch up in an instant as her chin tucks into chest for an even bigger smile. My elders love to hear it - how beautiful they are. Even if they deny my delivery, I say it anyway. Over and over, "You sure are beautiful today. or My these flowers don't have a thing on you." Marian thanks me.

I take one last glance at the suns reflection through our window. I think for a moment on freedom. Not that I want to leave, but that I can. At my present age my mind is holding its proper size. It is not a prison, a shrinking cell of tangles and plaques. I still recognize what keys are for, what a calculator is. I still have my freedom.

We start. Telling Marian the reason why I'm here would serve no real purpose. She is in the early mid stage of Alzheimer's. Our conversations will be simple and genuine and with out complexed explanations. She just needs to know I'm here for her. And so far, by her smiled approval, she does.

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Small town idiosyncrasies will motivate sometimes. Adding fuel to the fire of yearning. And that yearning adding to the muscle of movement, words spoken "I'll go with ya!" Running ahead of time to pack, change clothes, one last look in the mirror, "Bye Ma! Bye, Pa!" Explode through the front door, tossing the bag in the backseat and slamming the car door so tight, the sound of metal on metal a firework. Freedom from a Pa full of yelling. A farm full of chickens. A Ma full of indifference. And a town full of the same. For a nine-teen year old outside a small town in Colorado in 1945 freedom comes once. Marian knew another carnival waited. She would have a chance. And with her hands full of strength, mind empty of fear, she could do anything, in any direction, as long as that direction was away.

A cactus wren lands on the window ledge outside the family room window. It tilts it head back and forth to either see more of us or itself in the pane of glass. Marian and I chatted for about fifteen minutes when her childhood stories started to recycle. Again she mentioned her Leghorn chickens and her fathers ditch riding occupation. Again she meets her sisters friend. Again she escapes to Tucson. Thankfully I remember to meet her where she is in her mind, so each repeated version became new again in my response to her. "Really? First place at the county fair? or All the way to Tucson from Greeley?" Not "You already told me that Marian. The later would be responding from where I am, not from where she is in her tangled mind. Like seeing a hot air balloon in the same sky every morning, I smile and enjoy the colors of the balloon, the patterns on its skin. I listen for the rush of hot air and notice the tranquility of my home. I look at Marian as if her stories were splashes of color floating in a morning. Where each story is what it is. Maybe a simple story of a simple time. Or maybe each story is another version of the same window. And depending on my view either reflective or transparent.