by E. M. Schorb

    There are more women than

    men in the nursing home and

    more men than old doctors.

    Staff doctors visit once a

    month. The few old men do

    very little but sleep. Two

    or three of them occasionally

    gather outside in clear

    weather for a smoke， which

    is allowed them. I suppose

    those in charge feel that

    it can make no difference

    now， and it brings the old

    men a little pleasure. I

    sit and chat with them

    sometimes. Perhaps "chat"

    is a bit too lively a word

    to describe what passes for

    conversation during these

    puffing¹ sessions. A lot

    of low grunting² goes on.

    There is one old man who

    is afflicted³ with bone

    cancer and who says， in

    high good humor， that his

    guarantees have run out.

    He was a travelling salesman

    in women's wear， and still

    remembers how much he loved

    women. Many of the women

    have become little girls

    again. They carry dolls

    about with them， mostly

    rag-dolls， I suppose so

    they can't injure themselves

    when they squeeze them.

    To see these toothless，

    balding old ladies， frail⁴

    as twigs⁵， clutching these dolls，

    is heartbreaking. Oh， to love

    something！ It's still there.

    It has been in them since

    they were little and had dirty

    knees and bows in their hair.

    Some recognize me now， and，

    when I give them a wave，

    they wave back. It's a

    wonderful feeling to make

    contact， but it is difficult

    to tell how much they know.

    The care-givers are kind and

    efficient. They are mostly

    young， and apparently⁶ try

    to imbue⁷ the old with some of

    their zest⁸ for life， but

    of course the old know all

    that already——or knew and have

    forgotten it. I wonder，

    can the young reverse their

    situations with the old

    and see themselves looking up

    at such fresh faces from the

    vantage of bed or wheelchair

    or walker？ I am too young

    to join the old here in the

    nursing home， this metaphor⁹

    （or is it the tenor¹⁰ of a

    metaphor？） for the last days，

    but I am too old

    to feel the buoyancy of the

    young； so， at least for the

    context of the nursing home，

    I have arrived at yet another

    awkward age. After visiting

    my mother， who is only partly

    present， I go out and sit

    with the old men and have a

    smoke. We hope for clear days.

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