Just As I Am

I left my tiny room, the television noise from the hallway too much to bear. I went to the courtyard, where three old picnic tables stood amidst a garden of weeds. The old folks from the retirement home sat there, smoking their cigarettes. The yard was surrounded by windows, each one a cold, unblinking eye.

Inside the rooms, the dying lay. The air was heavy with the scent of sickness and despair.

Another Sunday. Maybe the family would come by after church, to do their duty and keep their guilt at bay. I'd been taken from my home, surrounded by my own things, to live with other old folks waiting to cross that rainbow bridge or move on to some other place. I stopped believing in the salesmen peddling houses in heaven a long time ago.

The realtors, like locusts, came with their empty promises, looking for the vulnerable. The house, a jigsaw puzzle of repairs and disrepair, creaked with age; the pipes dripped like a lament, and the old wires hummed uneasily, akin to the odd messages my old body sent out.

I remember when my son-in-law-to-be counted all my things, the guns, the collectibles, saying it was for insurance. Now I'm in this place with a gray sky overhead, some nurse chasing me to give me more medication. I want to scream, why me?

They used a clever ruse to deceive me. Despite their meager funds, they insisted on treating me to lunch, their generosity shining through. Instead, it was a one-way trip to a hellish, urine-soaked place, the stench of which assaulted even my dulled senses; a fetid, suffocating environment.

I tried to resist as the assistants pulled me from the car. I told them I wanted to die in my home. Money and greed had destroyed our relationship. I lived a frugal life, saved, drove old cars, and let the banks take my money at low rates while they loaned it out at high rates. It's the older folks who are too weak to fight back that suffer the most.

In the courtyard, I could still hear the birds, free to come and go as they pleased. I'm trapped here, like a bird in a cage, never even getting a parking ticket. This bracelet, this awful bracelet, sets off alarms whenever I get close to an outside door. Now I know what a canary in a cage feels like.

Maybe I should have done something wrong before this happened. Maybe I should have stolen a car or even an airplane. I could still fly one, not like the jets I flew in the Air Force, but a small Cessna. At least that way, I could have left this world like a man, not like a lab rat trapped in a glass cage, every moment monitored through cameras.

The man with the cross, like a medal of honor, took lots of my wealth. Then cancer took my wife. How could a loving God let that happen? I remember her silly grin when she'd leave the bathroom in a new dress from that fancy lingerie store in town. She'd spend hours trying to look like she did when we first dated. Her perfume smelled like sweet orchids.

If only she knew, I would have only ever seen her as she was that night at the high school dance. The gymnasium was decorated, the disco ball casting small lights around the room. I didn't have a girlfriend then, but by the end of that night, I had my first kiss, which lasted a lifetime–her lifetime. Our kids aren't doing what they promised when I signed the power of attorney. Don't do it. Don't let your kids decide your future. Money and greed can corrupt the best of them.

Once in this cheaply run place provided by my military service, the kids had my money, my house, and my things. The room had a bed, a small dresser, a roll-around table for what they called food and meds, and the remote control to a small television, unlike the one I used to have at home. The small closet had a few shirts, a few pairs of pants, two pairs of shoes, shower shoes, and no belts. The shoes had no strings. My ties, symbols of every Father's Day I remember most, probably went to Goodwill.

I remembered flea markets and antique malls I went to with my wife. The trinkets and baubles, hats, purses, and other things one might find in an estate sale were everywhere. The first time I saw a large basket of pictures, family pictures of a man and a wife next to a new car, a '39 Packard, it hit me. Their kids didn't even want to have the clutter of their memories. The scrapbooks, the postcards, and the medals – where would they end up? How about my daughter's artwork from grade school that was carefully packed away – would she toss it like so much garbage, like she did her father?

When they took me to lunch, to my new prison cell, my wife's closet was still full of her things. The scent of her perfume still lingered like a ghost. I wondered what that closet looked like today. Would it be empty with a few bobby pins lying near the baseboards? Would they have torn up the carpet where that small bottle of shoe polish left a stain in the corner?

I've been here for six months, two weeks, and three days — a period marked by both hardship and quiet moments since that fateful day. Winter's icy grip loosened, revealing a few stubborn weeds pushing through the thawing earth in the garden; my children's visits have been as scarce as spring blossoms. The last time they were here, the air buzzed with excitement as they talked about his new car—a sleek, expensive-sounding machine.

I have a granddaughter, but she doesn't like to come here. She says it smells. We agree on that.

Preachers, like politicians, will tell you what you want to hear. We sent lots of money to God. Could he be bothered to send a postcard to say thanks?

There are thousands of different denominations of Christianity alone. Thousands. Tell me, if the Bible is the exact God-breathed word of God, why are there so many different versions of that one religion?

If the Ark was supposedly located on a mountaintop at 29,000 feet, how did it get there? The air temperature at that elevation is -40 degrees. Never mind that they all would have frozen to death, but the Earth resembled Europa, a giant ice ball. Did God forget to take an introductory science class?

This is what happens when you take someone out of their home. When you remove them from the things that are familiar to them and place them in a sterile, antiseptic-laden environment staffed by people who don't care about doing anything other than what they have to. One of the few people like me who still have their wits about them are often given fake pills versus their pain meds. It appears that the workers here don't make much money, so they convince the patient that the pain pill will work.

"Just give it time." Whenever she leaves his room after slipping him a fake pill she has this wry smile much like the cat that ate the canary.

They think we are stupid. He is across the hall from me, and I can tell you the nights they take his meds and give him aspirin. He groans all night.

I don’t know what the street value of his opioids are, but I am confident that the nurses are drug dealers as a side hustle.

He is here because he was in too much pain to take care of himself.  I am here because I was wealthy, and I trusted my kids to do the right thing.

Carl, my neighbor, asked me if we had any pets. That one brought tears to my eyes. We had a dog, which I jokingly named Puddles.

When we were training him, often he left a few puddles, which my kids complained about because he left some stains on the nice furniture.

A week after they brought me here, Puddles escaped from the front door that was left open and was hit by a car. How could they be so careless with my dog?

After promising me they would take good care of him, they left the front door open. I don't think I can forgive them for that.

My wife loved that dog, probably more than she loved me. It slept with us, often between us. If there was anyone around the house, it barked. Those of us with slightly impaired hearing need such things. Puddles loved unconditionally. I should have left everything to the dog.

Last week, Carl passed over the rainbow bridge. His kids didn't even come to claim his stuff. The staff collected the clothes that were any good washed them and used them for those of us who needed something.

Carl, much like Puddles, leaked. Unlike the dog, he was forced to wear diapers. You never heard a grown man fuss so much as they made him wear adult diapers. They called them briefs but they were diapers.

Without his company and the lack of my kids, I guess I will just have to talk to myself. I'm already locked up; what more can they do to me?

I picked up a magazine that discussed depression. I considered journaling this experience, but thought my kids might find it and feel like total shits.

Then I remembered my wife's love for music, and how she played the piano.

I asked my daughter to find a book that teaches music reading and piano playing. Despite thinking I was insane; she offered her assistance. The mail delivered my book.

Occasionally she would call to check on me and I would tell her about my progress.

I took the music studies one day at a time.

My IQ was rumored to match Einstein's, or so they claimed the last time it was tested. I learned to play simple songs and, eventually, more complex ones. One late night, I awoke to my wife's voice.

"Nobody who crosses over comes back. Hymns comfort those who struggle with the thought of passing on. Jack, play some hymns and bring some comfort to those around you."

I could never resist her commands. She was the one who made me attend church, even when I didn't want to. She was the one who told me that no one truly knows what lies ahead.

Reluctantly, I found one of the hymnbooks. Song after song, a crowd gathered from their rooms. Even those who couldn't carry a tune showed up. For the hour or so that I played, the TVs fell silent.

Those who could sing did. The fog of anger and depression gradually lifted each day that I sat at the piano. Months after I began this journey, I was astonished to see my daughter, my granddaughter, and my son-in-law arrive.

"Dad, you did it. You learned to play the piano."

"You sound surprised. All it takes is focusing on others instead of yourself, and you can move mountains."

I had been at it for years. After the used car salesman's long-winded sermon, filled with promises of heaven and allusions to Jesus, Sundays became a ritual for me.

The music, with its gentle rhythm and calming harmonies, filled the air, creating a sense of peace for us all. Things, the things that we cling to meant less and less as I tried to make sense of things.

I started hearing whispers from beyond the veil—a cacophony of voices, some high and shrill, others low and guttural, that initially convinced me I was losing my mind. 

I'd be startled awake in the dead of night by disturbing shadows and sounds, but a peculiar sense of recognition always accompanied them. A wave of nostalgia and comfort came over me.

The Rainbow Bridge.

In a small, sunlit room, the air was thick with the scent of lavender. A man lay beneath a worn quilt, his body fragile as the gossamer threads of a spider's web. His spirit had already begun to drift towards the ethereal realm.

As the clock ticked softly in the background, the light from the late afternoon sun streamed through the window, casting golden rays upon the walls.

A dog's distant bark pierced the quiet, and then a chorus of voices, warm and familiar like a family gathering, drifted closer. As his heart slowed, a gentle breeze swept through the room, carrying with it whispers of memories long cherished.

He felt a familiar presence, like a tender hand resting on his shoulder, reassuring him that he was not alone. The air shimmered, and figures began to emerge—his loved ones, their faces radiant with love and compassion.

His mother appeared first, her smile as bright as the sunflowers she adored. She wore a flowing white dress that billowed around her like clouds in a summer sky, her laughter ringing like chimes in a gentle wind. “Welcome home, my dear,” she said, her voice a sweet melody that wrapped around him, enveloping him in warmth. The weight of his worries lifted, replaced by a profound sense of peace.

Next came his younger sister, her hair shimmering like spun gold, laughter bubbling from her lips as she twirled in a dance that seemed to defy gravity. She reached out, her hand glowing with an ethereal light, beckoning him to join her in a world where pain and sorrow held no dominion. “We’ve been waiting for you!” she exclaimed, her joy infectious, echoing through the room as the very air seemed to vibrate with love.

As he stepped closer to them, a rush of memories flooded his mind—family gatherings, laughter echoing through the halls, the warmth of shared meals, and the tenderness of stolen moments. Each memory was a vibrant brushstroke on the canvas of his life, painting a rich and full picture.

Finally, a figure emerged that made his heart swell with love—his partner, radiant and serene, their eyes sparkling like the reflections from that disco ball or the stars that had watched over them during countless nights spent together. “I’ve missed you,” they whispered, their voice a soothing balm that wrapped around him like a soft embrace. The man reached out, and as their fingers brushed, a surge of energy pulsed between them, igniting a connection that transcended the physical realm.

In that sacred space, surrounded by the warm embrace of love, the man felt himself dissolving into a brilliant, golden light; each heartbeat resonated with the echoes of shared love, a symphony of affection.

With one last glance at the worn music books, the dusty keyboard, and the well-loved Bible, he smiled—no regrets, only gratitude. Together, they shimmered in the light, laughter intertwining with the breeze, as they stepped into the embrace of eternity, a family reunited in the shimmering tapestry of existence.