Sunrise in the Afternoon
It is edited by Michael Simms who has been active in politics and poetry for over 40 years as a writer, teacher, editor, and community activist. He is the founding editor of Vox Populi, a daily journal of poetry, politics, and nature; as well as the founding editor of Autumn House Press, a nonprofit publisher of books of poetry, fiction, and nonfiction. Here is a link to the essay and other interesting pieces in different genres in the journal.
The
nurses and attendants appear numb to the “antics” of their patients with
advanced dementia. They remain in their office, go about their chores and keep
to their schedule. I think they have heard and seen it all, have become immune
to the cries and irrational behavior. Who I am to judge their actions? I am not
walking in their shoes.
But
I cannot ignore Rosita’s cry. It surrounds me, tugs at me. I wonder if the
crying is one of pain, of boredom or of frustration from being imprisoned in a
body that no longer works or obeys her will. I put my coat and bag down on a
chair and begin to alternately rub her back and hold her hands. Then I
straighten her up from the leaning position. How long had she been leaning like
that?
She
is the only immobile one. The others, though minds are failing, can move around
unattended. Some wander along the corridors with their rollators; others watch
TV. Can they follow the thread of the
program? They rarely engage each other in conversation. One sits briefly in front of the TV only to
rise soon after. In no time she returns; repeats her action.
I
no longer see an old man who always slept and snored loudly in his wheelchair.
I no longer see his dedicated wife who visited. I suspect he has died.
A patient, pushing through the corridors with her rollator, badgers a nurse for medication. Is she addicted to the pills or has she forgotten the time it is dispensed? The attendant assures her she will receive it at dinner time. She walks another round along the corridors and comes back again, asking the same question.
In
the meantime, Rosita’s crying has eased. Standing, I continue to rub her back,
then switch to holding her hands.
“How
long has she been crying like this?” I ask the nurse.
“Since
she woke up from her afternoon nap and was brought to the sitting room,” she
replies.
“Is
she in pain?” I enquire.
“She
is due for her medication soon,” the nurse answers.
I
accept that the patients will get their medication at the same time, pain or no
pain, and I return to rubbing Rosita’s back.
Rosita’s eyes have been tightly closed since
I arrived, as though unwilling to see her surroundings, face her reality. I
push the sippy cup between her tight lips and try to get her to drink. Between crying, she utters Spanish words I do
not understand. To me, they are lamentations, words of protests against her
deteriorating condition, against her loss of independence, her
surroundings. They do not sound like
words of joy…Ai, ai, ai….” Am I projecting my own fears unto her? This is a
moment when I wish I was a mind reader.
Rachel
L, an old Peruvian friend of Rosita’s, pops by to visit. When we met some time ago, they both communicated in Spanish. But I do not speak Spanish.
“I
speak English,” Rachel says, as though reading my mind. “I have lived in
Switzerland for a long time but did not learn German. Too complicated. I also
lived in Japan for a decade and did not learn Japanese. Too complicated. So how
do you know Rosita?”
“We taught together at Klubschule Migros for many years, belong to a Stammtisch of retired
teachers,” I say. “I learned Spanish in High School, in the mid-60s but I have forgotten most ofit. A few phrases have stuck with me…Hola, como estas? … Dónde vive?’….
”puedo tomar un poco de agua, por favor?.... “me caí y me rompí la pierna.”
“siento mucho escuchar eso.”… bits of conversations we had to memorize.”
We laugh.
“I remember when Rosita had hips and
danced and partied long after my head and tired limbs had sent me to bed. I
wondered how she, ten years older, found the staying power. I am still amazed
at the number of languages she once spoke. What a gift!”
“That's right,” Rachel answers.
“Spanish, Portuguese, German, French, English and Greek. I envied that gift.”
“She was still taking Greek lessons
five years ago,” I say.
“Is that so?” Rachel’s eyes widen.
Our
attention turns back to Rosita. Rachel speaks Spanish to her. Rosita opens her
eyes---wide. It is like the sun suddenly
rising. Then Rosita sits more erect and begins to respond to Rachel, answering
her questions in that strong voice I remember. She grabs her sippy cup and
drinks unassisted. Hearing her “mother
tongue” is like a life-saving homeopathic infusion. Rosita’s changed demeanor brings us joy. We
have just witnessed a miracle.
Rachel
hands Rosita an organic biscuit which she eats enthusiastically. She eats five
in a row. Her are eyes bright, full of light and life. Then she smiles. Her smile is infectious. We are grinning ear
to ear. Our hearts are light feathers of happiness for Rosita.
Had
we just witnessed that moment of lucidity I had heard and read about …. that phenomenon, which experts refer
to as terminal or paradoxical lucidity? It is said to have been reported on
since antiquity.
But
now, our visiting time is over. I have
been with Rosita for more than an hour.
Rachel, who arrived twenty minutes after me, has to leave, too.
It breaks our hearts that leaving might usher
sundown, put Rosita back in that dark place from which she had just risen. I
promise myself to play her Spanish poets reading their poems next time I visit.
She was a teacher of Spanish literature. I think of Pablo Neruda. Would she recognize, “I Like for You to be
Still”, “Me gusta cuando callas?” Would it speak to her? We do not always need
words to express love.
I like for you to be still, and you
seem far away.
It sounds
as though you were lamenting, a butterfly cooing like a dove.
And you
hear me from far away, and my voice does not reach you:
Let me come
to be still in your silence.
Me gustas cuando callas y estás como distante.
Y estás como quejándote, mariposa en arrullo.
Y me oyes desde lejos, y mi voz no te alcanza:
Déjame que me calle con el silencio tuyo.
I want to see that light, that
rising sun, again and again.
© Althea Romeo-Mark 2019,
1214 words
Note: Hola,
Como estas? … Dónde vive?’---Hello, how are you. Where do you live.”
“….Puedo tomar un poco de agua, por favor?”--- “Can I
have some wáter,please?”
“ me caí y me rompí la pierna.” “siento mucho escuchar eso.”--- “I fell down and broke my leg”.
“I
am so sorry to hear that.”
Born in Antigua, West Indies, Althea Romeo Mark is an educator and internationally published writer who grew up in St. Thomas, US Virgin Islands. She has lived and taught in the Virgin Islands, USA, Liberia, England, and Switzerland since 1991. A dual American and Swiss citizen, she writes short stories and personal essays in addition to poetry. and has been published. in the Virgin Islands, Puerto Rico, Antigua and Barbuda, The Bahamas, Barbados, USA, England, Germany, Norway, Portugal, Colombia, India, U.K., Kenya, Liberia, Romania, and Switzerland.
Her last poetry
collection, The Nakedness of New, was published in 2018. She has participated
in International Poetry Festivals in Romania, Kenya, and Colombia.
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