2013-03-24 – I’m sitting in a waiting room at LAX waiting for my plane back to Chicago.
Actually, that’s not true. I’m writing this Friday night and scheduling this to appear Sunday morning. You can tell lies with words.
What is true is that the time I’ve spent with my Mom at her retirement home is nearly over. Tomorrow we are going to my sister’s place for an early Seder. We’ll drive through the mountains and along the ocean to get there. You already know that I am leaving the next morning.
The people who run this place are very kind. The residents aren’t very talky, though. Words don’t seem to mean much here. And some of them are forgetting words anyway. But they make themselves understood in other ways. With a glare. With an averted glance. With a hug. With a squeezed hand.
Like when they were children.
Words are for the middle part of life. Good thing. What would a writer like me do without words?
Today we were entertained by a musician who sang and played the piano. He was very good. Cole Porter. Irving Berlin. All the standards. I usually have a hard time with the words of songs. I never remember the whole song. But I do remember the songs. And so do the old folks here.
I guess words don’t matter. At least not the way we think they do.
Actually, that’s not true.
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Eightoh9 
My daughters and I used to volunteer at a retirement home and paint pretty polish on fingernails. The beautiful smiles meant more than any words these ladies could -or could not at times -share.
It’s nice to hear that you do this. I was impressed at the residents who helped each other. They were strangers before they came to live in the place (except for my Mom’s cousin).
Sent from my iPad