The Park

Opening my eyes is so difficult.

Today, it was a little less.

My vision goes from black to a vibrant sea of colors. Greens that fade into browns that bleed into reds and yellows. The fall trees have never swayed so much, I think. Color starts to reach full vibrancy, and my eyes adjust to the scene in front of me, when a deep sigh leaves my lungs. Sharp, cool air fills the emptiness. My breath has never felt more invigorating.

I feel my chin tilt upwards, and I’m greeted with an array of lavenders and blues. A few scattered darkened clouds are being piloted north. The longer I look, I start to notice the birds following the patterns of the humans below them. Every single living thing moving back home, all in perfect synchronization as their supper and rest wait for them.

Dusk was my least favorite time of day for a majority of my life. Every time the sun started to set, my mind was flooded with the next days’ plans, schedules, petty meetings, and petty arguments. A hurtful reminder that tomorrow was still coming.

However my mind is clear tonight.

My head falls toward the ground in front of me. Blades of grass are littered across the cobblestone pathways in front of the rustic steel bench I’ve found my place on. Groundskeepers must’ve been by in the morning, which is nice. Freshly cut grass coming from a wax is never as good as getting to experience it.

My mom had plenty of candles.

My dad mowed the lawn every Sunday.

It’s a welcome scent.

Wind cracks across my face and snaps me out of my trance. I start to remember why I’m here.

The bench I’m on tonight was not some random choice. It’s within eyesight of The Park Senior Living.

It’s a true eyesore of a building, albeit I’m biased. Brown brick stacked on more brown brick, with no curves or breaks for about three stories. The only difference in textures are narrow windows every six feet or so, probably only there so the elderly don’t go off the deep end.

I take in a few more moments to watch the birds finish flying home to their nests, and place my hands on my old cracking knees to lift myself up. I don’t have a moment to think before my legs move towards the brown-bricked eyesore. My head quickly follows. Usually, I’m joined by a cup of coffee to give me my much-needed adrenaline, but I don’t need it today. My heart is resting at a calmer tempo.

Clockwork, routine, cyclical: Words to describe what most of my life has been, but especially the reality of the last few months. Making this normal is the only way I can digest it. Tonight, it seems to be working.

My feet stop at The Park lobby doors. Inhale, exhale. I open the doors.

The moment I step into the building I am not a person. I don’t exist, nor have I ever.

At least, that’s the impression my parents tend to leave.

Sitting behind a desk that is left of an incredibly modest lobby is Taylor, a twenty-something administrative assistant. I don’t know much else, and I’d like to keep it that way. The less time in here, the better.

She nods her head in my direction as she picks up the phone to call in the nurse assigned to my parents’ room. Nurse Vicky? Nicky? Shame I know more about Taylor than the nurse assigned to keeping my parents healthy. Or at the bare minimum, alive.

In between the time it takes for Taylor to pick up the phone and the nurse helping my parents from their rooms to me, I take in the lobby. Burnt white florescent spews across the cracked white tile on the floor. Two blue chairs separated by an olive end-table sit opposite of the desk. I’ve been here a million times, but I feel like I truly taking the room in tonight. My eyes follow the white wall to a still-life of a singular apple resting above the chairs. A memorable impression seems to be discouraged, judging by the decor. I look back over to the admin desk, and above it sits a standard clock, hands falling on 4:16. I quickly grab my phone from my jeans, press on the side, and the black screen brightens up with 7:30pm. Good to know that the elderly have such a good sense of time. But in most cases, it’s not like it matters anyway.

The moment I slip my phone back into my pocket, nurse Vicky (I finally caught her name tag), paces around the corner with the faces I’ve known my whole life.

Taylor, Vicky, and myself all share something in common: we know better than to exchange pleasantries. There’s nothing pleasant about this handoff, and I’m at least glad there’s a silent understanding.

There’s a beat of silence before I follow Vicky and my parents through a bright hallway full of cork boards on the walls, all of them full of flyers for in-home events with dates that are long passed. For the duration we have been walking, my mom has been murmuring questions to Vicky. Questions she has every time she leaves the room.

I tune it out as an act of self-preservation.

At the end of this corridor is the home recreation room. Typically, it’s a room for the folks who live here to feel like they’re still living. Its amenities include board games that take up all the space on a bookshelf, a television usually playing the news, dust-filled pool tables, and loose cards that are scattered through the room. Not many books however, they never finish them.

When we arrive outside the room, Vicky waits a moment before opening the door. She copies Taylor as she nods her head before twisting the handle, and my mom and dad go to sit down at a game table close by. I follow suit. As soon as she sees the three of us all inside, she closes the door behind me.

When the old, familiar faces look over to me, I can’t help but remember: my heart is a calmer tempo today.

I meet my mother’s eyes and pull out a chair next to my dad. We all sit in silence for a moment.

My dad smells as he always has, smokey leather and a hint of rose. He loves a cigarette as much as he loves gardening. For him to be so quiet isn’t one of the new developments. It would’ve been like this regardless.

I look slightly past him towards my mom. She hasn’t stopped murmuring questions, even after Vicky left the room. Her curly white hair bounces up and down as her face begins to be a bit more animated.

My mom was a calm soul. She had kind eyes and when she smiled I always felt at home. My dad was less calm, he definitely had more of a temper. Classic “tough love”, stoic type of guy. Naturally, I took to my mom when I was younger, but as I’ve aged I truly started to appreciate the way my dad loved. When you get older, you start to see the forest for the trees. I got lost in the trees a lot with him.

The way mom and dad loved me holds a warmth that’s hard to explain. It wasn’t loud, and it wasn’t obvious. It was nuance that was sometimes hard to decode. It felt like they were handing me a jigsaw puzzle on days they wouldn’t be reactive to something I was proud of. But, they always loved me when I needed it.

It’s something I haven’t felt for a few months.

My mother’s murmuring focuses my eyes back. She is confused right now, like she’s been every week. She looks right into my pupils but she’s not seeing me. She’s seeing a stranger for the first time.

My dad doesn’t really look in my direction either, which is normal most nights. He will stay silent, except for the occasional laugh. It’s always nice to hear, while not always prompted.

The thing they don’t tell you about being forgotten is… well, nothing. You’re forgotten. You can’t tell a person anything if you don’t know they’re there.

While I’m not a believer in the supernatural, I do believe spirits and I have the most in common the moment I’m alone with my parents. Spirits, I’m sure, can see, hear, and maybe even feel the world around them. But, they aren’t truly there. I’m sure there is a certain acceptance that comes with someone that has passed, forever cursed to haunt the people around them. An acceptance that the people and world around them will never perceive them. An acceptance I’m working with my therapist to achieve.

Maybe that’s why my hands aren’t shaking today.

Not counting the murmuring, we continue to sit in complete silence. I’ve found its easier for me this way. Simply being in the presence of them is enough for me these days, though I know they don’t see a point in it. I’m sure I can start talking to them again, but in my limited experience, it’s best I don’t.

My reality is fundamentally different than my mom and dad’s now. And there aren’t enough doctors in the world to change that. Unfortunately there have been no amount of pills that can recover neurological passageways.

I take another breath, but this time no cool air comes in. Just warm, recycled oxygen.

I think I had my time with them for today.

I copy my form from the bench and put my hands on my knees, and push against the ground away from my chair. The smell of leather and smoke leaves my nose, and I take one final look at my parents. My mom continues to stare, the same confused expression she’s had.

This part never gets easier.

I turn around, and my arms start to sway in perfect rhythm with my feet as my body finds itself closer and closer to the door. Both my eyes and my hand meet at the handle, and I twist open.

I walk through without looking back.

I leave the door to fall back into place behind me. Just as I hear the click of the door being shut behind me, I hear my mother ask, as if she saw a ghost:

“Who’s there?”