Nursing Home

In the nursing home, where time stands still

There are more women than men, and good doctors are few

The old men do little but sleep, their days passing by

Staff doctors visit only once a month, their care fleeting

 

Outside, a few old men gather for a smoke

Allowed this small pleasure in their twilight years

Their conversations filled with low grunts and grumbles

As they cling to what little joy remains within their grasp

 

One old man, his body ravaged by bone cancer

Jokes with high good humor about his expired guarantees

A former salesman who loved women, his memories fading

But his love for life and laughter still shines through

 

The women, once vibrant and lively, now reduced to little girls

Clutch rag-dolls to their chests, seeking comfort and solace

Their frailty and vulnerability tugging at the heartstrings

A reminder of the love that has always been within them

 

I wave to them and they wave back, a fleeting moment of connection

But it's hard to tell how much they really know, their minds slipping away

The care-givers, kind and efficient, try to infuse them with zest for life

But the old know all that already, or knew and have forgotten

 

I wonder if the young can reverse their situations with the old

Imagine themselves in the same frail state, looking up at fresh faces

I am too young to join them, too old to feel the buoyancy of the youth

An awkward age in the context of the nursing home, a metaphor for the last days

 

After visiting my partly present mother, I sit with the old men and have a smoke

Hoping for clear days, for moments of clarity and connection

In the twilight of life, we all seek comfort and companionship

As we navigate the complexities of aging and the bittersweet beauty of existence. ("Nursing Home") by Courtney Weaver Jr.