He repeats the name of this place to himself and pulls the memories from the back of his inner file to the front. "Isn't this
your place?", he asks and I lean toward his ear and tell him, yes.
"It's beautiful here, and so many nice flowers. It's a wonderful day, isn't it?" I lean forward again and share my enthusiasm in the perfect weather.
"Remember coming here, Grampie?" I ask as I push him along the colourful rows, antithesis to the closet-footage that houses the hospital bed, small dresser and t.v. where he spends his hours.
"Yes, yes, I do."
We glide together, his wheels and my stride, in silence for a moment. Then he thanks me for treating him like a king, for bringing him here. Tears come to my eyes and once again I lean low, place a hand on his arm, and choke out the words that my heart is swelling, "It's the least I can do for a man who cared for me my whole life, Grampie." He draws his frail and veiny hand across his chest and pats my hand.
"I always liked you. God bless you."
Gliding again, I point out an apple tree that is bearing golf ball sized fruit and he asks for one. I chuckle and pluck him an under-ripe apple, warning him it may be sour. He can't even bite into it and hands it back, telling me they're not usually ready till September. Silly me. His eyesight is deteriorating so I motion to the horses beyond the fence, hoping he can make out the large shapes but he doesn't seem to be focusing. I remind him that I used to call them
sorsies when I was little and he laughs. He remembers.
Another aisle, then another, and I soak the sun and the seconds that pass. I think about the nurses who care for him daily. They wash him, feed him, require little of him. They maintain his basic needs and then walk in and out of his room as he remains curled up under a blanket, head tucked, most of the day. They don't know this man, who he was, what he has done, who he is. If they knew, would they stop and sit for a moment, laugh with him, urge him to enjoy the home's activities and not take "no" for an answer? If they thought about his four children, nine grandchildren, and nineteen great-grandchildren whom he adored and shared his life with, would they see him differently? If they knew he'd give his last dime to help a stranger and take the shirt off his ninety-two year-old back for someone in need, would they tuck him in a little tighter at night?
He interrupts my thoughts, apologizing for the trouble it's been for me to take him "outdoors like this". I stop the chair, squeeze his bony shoulders and my heart wants to keep this stray puppy. "I love you, Grampie, and I'm giving back a tiny bit of what you've given me."
"It's a wonderful day, isn't it?"
"The best." I reply.
