"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.

Clark

At the retirement home where my friend, Cassie, and I go for an hour each week, there is a man named Clark.  Clark is a military man; he has been all over the world.  He is also an active advocate for psychotherapy and has bleached yellow hair, trimmed close to his head.  His clear blue eyes are dimmed now.  The stroke he suffered left it hard for him to see, and I think it's getting harder.

As a young man, Clark lived in a small town in Utah; the population sign said "13,001," he told us.  When he went off to BYU, he decided he needed to change it.  "Make it more acc'rate," he said, skipping over the "u" so it sounded like "ackrit."  When a policeman caught him erasing the 1 on the sign, the man told Clark he wasn't supposed to mess with the signs.

"But I'm making it more acc'rate," he explained.
"How so?" the policeman asked.
"Well, I'm the one and I'm leaving."

Clark lives in C2, I think, in an apartment complex near the retirement home center building.  When we come to the building each week, Cassie and I stand on the second floor, looking down into the cafeteria area where they've been decorating for Halloween - on Monday, they will show two movies and trick-or-treat there - and see Clark eating his dinner at a round table in the far corner.  He tells us these people need love.  He tells us that "matter can't be destroyed, and it can't be created, BUT," (he points his pointer finger up at this, smiling at us), "it can be transformed."

"You are not who you think you are.  You are who you really are."  Clark is an advocate for truth.  He walks with a cane; he doesn't climb the stairs now, something he did do when we first met him.  He didn't remember Cassie and me, I don't think, this time, but he did the second time we came.  "You are my favorite girls," he told us, gentle and kind.

Clark flew Cessnas before he became an official air force pilot.  He was a polygraph expert in Korea.  He had an office and a truck.  When he was moved into the retirement home, a friend took pictures of his office for him, of the pictures on the wall, of his personal mantra.  He has them in a stack on his shelf, and a binder full of papers.

And I keep listening to this song.