Lucille Sits in the Chair

Lucille Ford sits in the chair next to the fireplace all day, drifting in and out of consciousness. She is 96, and looking at her frail, shrunken body is a potent reminder that people were not meant to live that many years- bodies simply were not meant to persevere though that much time. Like walking through piles of raked leaves in a wet autumn, her decay is palpable. You can virtually see her bones fracture and collapse an infinitesimal bit each second. She shrinks further and further into herself.

Her day remains structured by the most essential functions of her survival. The times she eats, the times she voids her bowels, and times she takes her pills. She struggles to rise from the rocking chair to take the afternoon dose, easing herself back and forth to build the momentum it will take to heave her small body up and into the waiting embrace of her walker. Laura reaches over her to help. At five foot eight, a hundred and ten pounds, Laura towers over Lucille like a redwood.

“Mrs. Ford, I like your perfume” Laura tells her at top speaking volume. All conversations with Lucille must take place several decibels higher than what feels comfortable for polite, indoor conversation.

“Oh?” she responds. “I put some on mah knees this mornin’. But my smellers are not so good anymore, so I can’t tell if this smells nice or not. I brought it from home, and I remember when I got it, I thought to mahself ‘it’s a nice smell’ but I swear I haven’t smelled it since”

“Is it a lotion?” Laura asks

“Yes, it’s a body rub Jenny gave to me for mah birthday last fall.”

Her watery blue eyes look out, and then in, and then out again; glassy pools which overflow and spill out past her lids and onto her bony cheeks every few seconds. She keeps a handkerchief tucked into her sleeve, under her watch, to dab at the little rivulets of tears that continually stream down her face.

Laura sits next to Lucille at the dining room table over Thanksgiving dinner. Everyone has finished, but Lucille continues daintily fumbling spoonfuls of mashed potatoes into her mouth. She sets her spoon down and softly sighs. Laura touches her right hand and gently runs her fingers across the diamond ring on her right middle finger.

“You’re wearing the ring on the wrong hand AND the wrong finger” she shouts.

Lucille slowly gazes up from her plate into Laura’s eyes “Yeas, Ay know. It’s too big for mah left hand on any of the fingahs. But I won’t get it resized,… No,” She pats the top of Laura’s hand. “It won’t be much longah now.”