"Reminds me of my childhood," I tell John, adding milk to the tomato can. "The soup still smells the same."
"Must have been everyone's childhood," he says, turning off the blender.
John is one of mine (and Rich's) favorite hospice aides. But he's been assigned to the field for the past two weeks, and this evening shift will be a one-off until he comes back to the residence, at least a week away.
"Thanks so much for helping me," he says.
It's selfish, purely. I miss cooking meals. I miss eating by candlelight. Lighting the candles was Rich's job, mostly. The last night before entering the Hospice residence, leaning into the walker, he struggled to hold the matchbox in one hand, the match in another, but he got a flame going on the fat beeswax candle, one more time. Its last time, but we didn't say anything. His last meal at home.
Nothing happens anymore without a memory attached.
I select a pottery cup from the cupboard. Nice, John says; he pours the milkshake, sets out a napkin, I choose the spoon. This is the first meal for a new resident.
The sooner the resident in Room #4 eats, the sooner Rich gets on the commode. It takes two, sometimes three pairs of hands; sometimes I help, sometimes I wait in the lounge, recovering with a tea.
Tonight I take the tea. In a brown mug, bought in England how many years ago, Rich's mug, I bring it so I don't overtax the Hospice kitchen.
Rich doesn't recognize the mug. Today was a day he couldn't pretend anymore, and I wish I could. Do they let you do suicide in Hospice, he asks. Why are the confusing me, he wonders. What an elaborate system they have! How do they make the clocks run like that?
John enters, and Rich smiles. For the first time today.
"We should drink Scotch together," Rich says.
"Anything you want!" John laughs.
I finish my tea. I notice the soup is returned to the kitchen, uneaten. Rich is off the commode, in bed.
We kiss. He smiles. I lean my head into his shoulder.
"I miss this so much," I say.
"You could get a mold," he says.
So practical, still.
"Not the same," I say. "Not the same."
Accidently, I set off his nurse's call button. She enters, smiles, turns off the light.
"Just like Italy," I say.
We shared a story here.
He rolls his eyes.
"Whatever. It all merges."
With John and millions of others, I can talk about tomato soup memories.
But what happens to a memory shared with only one other?
Candace
3 comments:
still following . . . with love, Jane
What happens to a memory shared with only one other? Perhaps this is what compels us writers to write.
Most of our memories are shared with only ourselves. Until we write. And then they become collective memory.
There is a basic human desire not to be forgotten, and not to have memories, awarenesses, thoughts, go unshared, unreturned. How else can we understand the popularity of Facebook and Twitter and simply sitting on the village square watching people?
Keep writing. As long as either one of you is carrying the memories, they live, and when they are written, they live forever.
Amen to writing.
Love, Heather
James Boswell once wrote "I am desirous that my life should tell." When you write these things down, for yourself and for us, we hear the echo of your lives together. They may be only echoes of memory, but they ring true and clear. I'm grateful that you're writing them in this public way.
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