January

Issue 40

         People like to tell me I'm in my golden years.  What young folk don't understand is I still feel twenty-something in my mind.  We all do.  The years pass, the body ages, experience piles up, but you're still that kid inside, struggling to understand why your body has betrayed you so.

         Let me tell you about Blondie, for instance.  Her real name is Verna McCoy, and her coif is perfect white, but I call her Blondie and she loves it.  Blondie likes to dance in the grass by the willow trees out back of Trinity House Seniors Home, all billowing dress and bare feet and spindly legs.  Inevitably Nurse Amy will go to bring her in, and Blondie loops her arm through Amy's and smiles up at her without her teeth, loving every minute.

         I love to watch her.  As soon as I hear her tinny rendition of "I Only Have Eyes for You" or "Always," I ease up from my chair and stand at the window.  She's always by the weeping willow, trailing the draping strands in her fingers as she circles the tree.

         Blondie has the heart to enjoy life despite arthritic joints and eighty-nine years.  She refuses to sit and nod at the television day after day.  She's always up and doing.  I decided that very morning it was time to find out her secret, for I was certain she had one.

         Blondie's voice echoed down the hall. "I tell you, they promised me.  They come in the night and talk with me.  They're the ones that always want to dance."