I’d been in the lunchroom for about two hours helping the elderly with their meals and talking about their days. Lunch had finished up and only a few people remained. I found myself sitting across from a middle-aged lady. She was fidgeting with her fingers.
An elderly lady was sitting next to me in her wheelchair with her snowy hair falling just below her jawline. She was talking about Dr. Seuss and the power that words have, especially on children. I chuckled softly, remembering reading anything I could get my hands on when I was growing up. Then, the middle-aged lady across from me spoke something under her breath. I couldn’t hear her, so I leaned forward.
“I like writing.”
Immediately, I could feel a smile reaching my eyes. Writing has always been a passion of mine, and I find myself most comfortable around fellow writers. I asked her what she likes to write about most and she told me she was writing a memoir.
“Oh, that’s fantastic! How far along are you with it?”
“Well, I just have little ideas written out. I didn’t start it yet.”
Her expression transformed from one of enthusiasm to one of visible sadness. The elderly lady beside me asked what was wrong. In a very matter-of-fact manner, the middle-aged woman said that she didn’t think anyone would want to read her memoir. She didn’t think people cared about her. I felt a pain in my heart at that point.
“Now, why would you think that?”
“It’s just that I haven’t done anything really significant. I’ve moved around a lot in life and now I work here.”
“Here” was a residential facility for the elderly akin to a nursing home. She’d helped out with feeding the elderly during their lunch times and she’d carried herself with such energy that it pained me deeply to hear her think so little of herself. I told her very quickly that I would read her book if she ever did get it finished. She seemed in disbelief for a moment, but then remembered that the leader of the group I’d been volunteering with told her I write poetry.
“Well, why do you write?”
I sat quietly, looking around the room when she asked me this. The elderly lady next to me pulled her lips into a smile, her wrinkles betraying the youth in her eyes. I thought to myself that I’d want to write just as much at her age than I do now.
“I’m happy when I write. It’s not that I’m entirely unhappy when I don’t write, not at all. It’s just that I’ve always said everyone has a story inside themselves and we need to write it out. Whether it’s for ourselves, a loved one, or a complete stranger, we need to write. We need to tell our story.”
I noticed it was time for me to head out with my group who were scattered about the building, helping in different areas. Both of the ladies looked at me with warm smiles. I crouched to hug the elderly lady who whispered “God bless” in my ear. I reciprocated the kindness and the middle-aged woman then stepped forward and hugged me tighter than I’d ever been. She thanked me for spending time with her and I took my leave. I really hope she put pen to paper or fingers to a computer keyboard.
I hope you do, too.
