Time to Play

She rushed down the hallway, shoving her walker along. The tennis balls on the feet were lime green with nerves. A stack of worn papers were in her left hand. 

"Gloria, where are you going?" asked her neighbor. Gloria looked up at Ms. Haley, who was sitting near the elevator with a picture book in her lap. Her glasses were perched on top of her head. She'll "lose" them again, thought Gloria. And then after twenty minutes of looking, she'll find she was wearing them all along. But isn't that what happens to all of us...walking around, looking for what we already have. 

"Gloria? What are you looking at? No, I didn't get new glasses. I died my hair! Can you tell? And where are you going?"

"Upstairs."

Why the rush? Ms. Haley wondered, shaking her head. The seventy-five-year-old had nowhere to run. Everyone here had patience. Patience to wait. The cluster of men in the sitting room noticed her right away.

"Old Glory, we haven't seen you in a while! Where are you headed? They're doing doily decorating in the arts and crafts room. But you were never really into that sort of thing, were you?" asked Mr. Hill.

She furrowed her brow and lifted her chin toward the activities hall. Her walker spun to the left. A moment later, unexpectedly, music burst forth. 

"She's playing! As I live and breathe, Gloria’s playing! You hear that?" Hill stood and beckoned to his group to follow. They all traipsed after him like a pack of obedient dogs. 

"Seems you took us to the right place. I'd take a concert over backgammon any day. Plus, I was losing." Mr. Smith smiled appreciatively at Hill. 

"Beautiful," one of the women on the bench gushed, putting her hand to her heart. "She never once played here. We used to beg all the time…I think it’s been what? Five years? It's so fine to hear her now!"

A few of the residents started to dance, heads nodding to the jazz tunes flowing from her hands. The dimple on her cheek made a quick appearance, but no one noticed. 

After you've gone and left me crying,

after you've gone, there's no denying

You'll feel blue - you're gonna be sad

You've missed the dearest pal you ever had

There'll come a time - don't you forget it

There'll come a time when you'll regret it

Some day when you get lonely

Your heart will break like mine and you'll want me only...

Ms. Haley hobbled in, goosebumps forming on her arms. Oh, Gloria! She was coming up here to entertain. How wonderful! She grabbed on to Hill and shook his arm.

"Norman, isn't this divine? Reminds me of high school. I wonder why she…”

"Today? Don’t know either, but let’s hope she keeps this up." A grin went up his cheeks, along with some color. They twirled around until his cane tripped her one too many times. She sat down and patted the spot beside her, tapping to the rhythm.

But I'll be gone yes I'll be gone - to stay

Yeah after I've gone - after I've gone away

"Norm, I know you'll be here to stay for a while. But my feet can't take your cane. So please, let's relax."

"Whatever makes you happy." He lowered himself onto the bench. "You know, it's been a long time since there's been a morning like this. I mean one that went by without me spending it checking the clock waiting for lunch to start. So I could be through with it and then go up to my room for more...well, alone time...I don't have much of a schedule. No family. No one comes to check up on me. Not that I'm complaining, but maybe we could play some Rummy once in a while. What do you say, Jane?"

"Oh, I'd love to. And don't worry, I'll share my great-grandkids with you anytime. They make a mess out of everything. I heard Gloria's grandkids are coming today to visit. They're supposed to be very well-behaved. And her son's putting the kibosh on his marriage. Poor guy. Uppity, is that the word? I hope you don't mind, I'm such a gossip. But they are intense sort of people."

"The apple doesn't fall far from the tree." They both laughed, and finally, Ms. Haley's glasses skittered across the checkered floor. 

At ten to twelve it was lunchtime. Corned beef sandwiches were served. 

🕛🕧🕐

He got in the car and pushed down on the pedal. Always in a rush. The flowers were in the back, ready to be laid in Mom's room. What a nice day for a visit. It had been a while, what with the divorce proceedings and numerous other unpleasant tasks associated with what his psychologist had called the "irretrievable breakdown" of his seven-year marriage. Mom would ask no questions. She'd only be grateful to see him and the kids. He inhaled the sweet autumn air. Good thing Pop wasn't alive to see this mess. 

"Dad, when are we there?"

"When we’re there. Remember not to bang on the piano, alright? We want to give Grandma a good time. She wants things quiet."

The phone rang. "Is this Gloria Milson’s son?"

He didn't hear the rest. Except for 'choked' and 'attempts to revive’.

The parking lot loomed with bad news. There were no lights or sirens. He was too late. Inside, the dining room was deserted, but he heard muffled crying down the hall.

On the table lay her watch. The black hand against the white face read 12:15. He looked up at the wall clock. 1:26. Her life had frozen in time. Death entered with a final stroke of black on white. He noticed her sheet music on the rack. ‘Hit The Road Jack’. He scanned the lyrics: “I guess if you said so I'll have to pack my things and go (that's right).” Odd, I thought she never took these from her room. And so, understanding, he sat down, pushed down on the pedal, breathed in her perfume, and began to play.