Inside Oldness

We carry grocery bags into the building
where my mother lives, with
twenty old neighbors
in twenty very lonely apartments
I carry a half dozen bags around my wrist
she balances a twelve-pack of yogurt in one trembling hand
her purse over-gripped in the other
Her keys and eyeglass hang from her neck
as she looks up into the hallway to draw her sight lines, and
muster the intention
which will move her from her position to that elevator door afar.

The sliding doors close behind us, and
the signature aromas of disinfectant and talcum power envelope us
Ahead, she spots a hunched figure moving away, and
tugs on my arm
“That white haired woman is crazy” she says slowing me
“Let me know when you have time, I’ll tell you all about her”.
We wait till the elevator doors close behind the crazy one, and
push the button to summon it once more.

One floor up we alight and turn a corner
Richard her neighbor is shuffling ahead with his walker
each difficult effort gaining him only a few inches
“I want you to meet Richard” she says introducing us loudly over his shoulder
“He’s just back from eye surgery for Glaucoma”.
Richard stops, turns with great effort, smiles and nods in agreement
“Yes,  I just had surgery for Melanoma” he says
“not in my eye, but here” he points to the stitches
on his embroidered cheek
As he turns back and starts his slow but frantic search for his keys
I see them already hanging in his door lock
the door already ajar!

Next, Mom faces her own apartment
clenching her yellow key with both hands 
straining from shoulder to shoulder she turns the key in the lock
and pauses …
then, threading her tiny wrinkled arm through the crack in the door
she pushes away the vacuum cleaner she uses to barricade the entrance.
Living too alone to trust everything to fate
and too old to learn anew of alarms and gadgets
she has found her mental security in positioning a vacuum cleaner behind her door.
A decade, perhaps even a few years ago I might have made a case
for the ineffectiveness of the cleaner as a defensive ploy, but
I have learned from her
that living alone is not easy
it is fraught with imaginings and the constant state of a low-grade panic
that growing old is not just a destination
but a road filled with revelations of inabilities, insecurities and uncertainties
All that I can effectively do is carry a few bags of groceries into her life
every chance I get,
but the rest of the day’s work in life’s kitchen is still hers and will always be..
…
“and no bearer of burdens will bear the burden of another”.