Tangled Traditions
written by: Karen Southall Watts
Thank goodness for long-suffering nurses, the man thought as he had been unable to balance the tiny gift-wrapped box and his cane, and his morning coffee all at once. The morning nurse put his coffee on Margaret’s breakfast tray along with the tiny package, leaving the man free to concentrate on navigation.
When they got to Margaret’s room, she was sitting up in bed looking happy, but almost transparent. It was clear that only her body was firmly anchored to this world, as her heart and soul drifted in and out of dreams and memories. She broke into a child-like smile of delight when she saw the breakfast tray with waffles, cherries, and whipped cream, and a brightly wrapped present that could only be from her darling Peter.
“Good morning, Margaret.” The nurse began her morning checklist. The man pulled a chair close to the bed and sat down with a sigh.
No one called her professor anymore. A few months after she arrived, she gave her professional library and personal papers to the local university. Once a famous author and lecturer, she was now just Sweet Margaret in room 17. The nurse discreetly made a few notes on the chart hanging on the end of the bed, then she pushed the tray on a wheeled stand over the side of Margaret’s bed. She left the smiling couple to their morning.
Between tiny bites of waffles, Margaret chattered on about “that summer we spent in Paris,” and the designer scarf she bought that Peter said matched her eyes. She managed, with lots of help, to eat about a third of her breakfast. The tiny present, when she was finally able to open it, contained a bar of rose petal soap from Provence, sending her off into another set of rapturous memories of romantic travels in the past.
After about an hour, Margaret began to muse aloud about “where the children might be” and “if they were going to be late.” Then she remembered they had to attend church services. In her mind, bits of old arguments floated around like gaudy glitter in a snow globe. Fragments of memories, coated in accusations and tears, moved in her brain, always distant but still close enough to exhaust her. She could barely hold her head up or her eyes open.
Ben Rosenthal leaned down and placed a chaste kiss on Margaret’s cheek. He knew, from the nurses’ gossip, that her church-going family had abandoned her the year after her beloved Peter had died, and her dementia set in. She was outspoken and opinionated, and they believed the fall that broke her hip and sent her down the path of nursing home living was her punishment for living an un-Godly life. He also knew this was probably her last Christmas. He pushed the tray stand away from her bed and gently tucked her in.
“Merry Christmas, Darling.”
“Merry Christmas, Peter. I think I’ll have a nap now if it’s okay with you.”
Ben smiled and reached for his cane. He could hear his boisterous family coming down the hallway. Though they’d deemed it “kinda cringe,” his grandchildren had agreed to join everyone from the Synagogue for lunch at the local Chinese restaurant. As he closed Margaret’s door, he said a tiny prayer for her to know peace.
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