Nursing homes aka “Old people homes” are filled with brutal honesty.
Bodies do fail, hearts do break and people do forget.
Shrouded in the air is a faint whisper of “it was easier this way.”
Some are nicer, some are glorified ways to spend your last dollar, some are government funded and time donated.
Each is filled with truth.
On this particular day I brought my 5 year old nephew and he was scared.
There was no compassion alive in him.
He could feel death.
He could feel the abandonment.
And most of all he could feel worry.
He couldn’t comprehend why all this was named into one place.
He drank fruit punch and avoided eye contact.
He could feel all the help needed.
Help: We like to convince ourselves we don’t need it but we do.
Always have. Always will.
We are born into a web of hands and prayers and love that keep us alive. We are dead without it.
We require help.
Even the most solitary writer needs the reader, the most gangster mobster, a trusted Lieutenant, the most independent candidate, voter.
At the end of the day what is Picasso without his paint, and Ferrari without the gas.
This overwhelming need for help never really changes in the human life from the first day we are brought from the womb calling desperately for that commodity.
At some point in adulthood we convince ourselves that we are free agents, that we can do it all ourselves.
That’s a lie.
In the end comes also our beginning.
The sense of a door opening to some final unknown.
A soothing and haunting voice attempting to help us come to terms with our own disappearance.
A hand extended to help us over the horizon.
Equally as mysterious as the one we crossed at birth.
Just ask Sisyphus – who was filled each and every time.
You see, the joke was on the Gods.
This wasn’t a curse.
It was a blessing