listed on photo

The Trombone Player

I lie here in my bed because that is all I can do now. The staff come in and turn me and clean me every so often. I have a vague memory of times when I had pain or was just uncomfortable but it was so long ago. Now it is not bad. I sleep or dream, kind of like floating. I think I am not always here. In any case, “Here” is a hospice facility.

There are many memories. Some were long ago, though Time has less and less meaning to me. A woman brought pretty flowers for my room. I believe we were good friends once but some things I can’t quite remember. It is selective. But when I see her face I have a warm feeling and it makes my day lighter, like when the sun comes streaming into your room after a cloudy day, or a rain shower.

Today a man came in to see me. He is older and has short white hair. What do I mean when I say he is “older”? Well, not a young man, and as I think about it, somewhere around my age. I am, “older”, or “old” depending on how you see it. He explained to me that he is a Chaplain for the Hospice, and that he is a Buddhist, an inter-faith Chaplain. I once studied Buddhism, but did not want to belong to any particular religion again. Raised Catholic. So I tried to smile. I think he understood. I can no longer speak, but my eyes work somehow, and I feel like I can still smile. The corners of my lips turn up. He looks somehow familiar, and nodded at the flowers and said they were…