"That's a long ways away."

L. is a sweet lady.  "I have beginning Alzheimer's," she told us, and then asked me again where I came from, what my name was, how many siblings I have.

I tried to change it up a bit; "I'm one of nine," I explained.  "X sisters, X brothers," I said.

When I told her where I've moved from, she said, "That's a long ways away."  I'm glad she thought that.  It is a long ways from home, living here.  I'm glad she said it in a comforting, caring voice.

L. has five sons and one daughter.  All of them live nearby and she doesn't know how many grandchildren she has.  A lot, it seems.  My friend, C., talked to the other women sitting on the couch nearby, in the lobby of the retirement home.  The lights felt especially warm, and the couches were comfortable.  One of the ladies talking to C. hadn't realized it was November.  "I just turned 88," she explained to C.

"When's your birthday?" C. asked.
"January."
"Well, you're almost eighty-nine!"
"What!"

Today, when my sister picked me up in her car for a worship service, the blue one we'd used, she asked me why it smelled like a retirement home.  I hadn't noticed anything, but apparently C. and I carry the scent when we come back.  C. is matter-of-fact and let's me talk.  She is kind and thoughtful, and I'm grateful that our lives intersect at least this one hour a week.  It makes everything calmer, solidifies it.  We talk about roommate troubles, boy troubles, the way V. got up and left when we came in.  She's been having a pretty rough time; it was hard to see her leave.

I think of how lonely it could be, becoming friends with people who may not be around you for long.  But L., our lovely, forgetful lady, says she has had a good life.  She told me she is still having a good life.  L. has blue eyes; they change colors depending on the clothes she wears, like my sister's.  She tells me my eyes are like her husband's, brown.

When we leave, the man who "runs" the retirement home says goodbye.  He had to introduce us to L. and her group the other day; apparently no one was depressed enough to want to talk to us readily, but they graciously let us interject.  He always wears a grey shirt and has a belly.  I don't know his name yet, but he is great.