Aunt Annie

My wife had a relative, how the bloodlines come between them I haven't unraveled, but the relationship is there. Aunt Annie was what she was called. We came to knowledge of Aunt Annie after we had been married for 18 years and had moved to Florence, Alabama. Susan, my wife, has cousins there whose ties to Aunt Annie were much stronger.

Aunt Annie had lived in a small 2-bedroom house right off of the square, in her hometown in rural Alabama until her advanced age and frailty gave her to a retirement home. It was there we met her while visiting Susan's cousins. Susan had lost all of her grandparents during the years of our marriage and suffered greatly at the loss. Aunt Annie provided a replacement. We would visit as we could.

One year, for Aunt Annie's birthday, I carried my dulcimer to the retirement home and played. I remember the narrow white hallways. Would it be trite to say they smelled of urine and mildew? I still see the old people who sat outside their rooms and stared vacantly. I still hear the ones who talked to people not present, or merely called on Jesus for release.

"Help me! Help me! Jesus, Please help me!" One white-haired lady called out over and over as she pushed her wheelchair with idle motions of her slippered feet. She was strapped into the chair. One eye was filmed over with a cataract; the other was bright, almost feverish. I don't remember its color.

The nurses brought Aunt Annie to one of the common areas and made sure she was comfortable. I am not sure she knew who we were but was happy to have visitors. I began to play. Although her eyes couldn't see me, and her hearing was fading, she smiled at the old southern hymns and tunes I played. She liked "Come to the Church in the Wild Wood" the best, I played it several times.

The other residents seemed drawn to the music. Even the lady calling to Jesus grew silent and listened. Some tried to sing or merely nodded in time to the music. The plaintiff sound of the dulcimer reminding them of their youth in the rural south where the instrument finds its roots. It was too soon time to go. I felt a connection between the generations.

Because of work demands I didn't get another chance to play for Aunt Annie again, she passed away, after we had moved on to Kansas City. I hope she remembered the music. I often feel guilt over not going back and playing as often as I could for those poor souls trapped in minds and bodies that have betrayed them. Trapped in loneliness, not remembering, or not having visitors as the days draw into months, and then perhaps sadly, years.

It is sad we must sometimes put our loved ones away in homes not surrounded by loved ones, but with caregivers who are at times anything but. However, demands of time and effort are sometimes too much. Sometimes the burden of care is too great, and the elders must pay the price.

I fear growing old, being forgotten, left to become the old man who longs to play the dulcimer with arthritic hands. Perhaps some young person will play for me.