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Show Nursing home/4 I asked what his favorite was. "0 My Father," he replied. "I love the message in '0 My Father.' Would you like me to sing it for you?" What for me was a new attraction was commonplace for the staff. They didn't feel as excited about the same three songs over and over. My inexperience caused me to hesitate. So I told him I was going back to my mother and would come and listen to him next time. Several days later I returned to the nursing home. As mother slept I slipped away to visit my new friend, Alfred. Walking into his room I asked, "Do you remember who I am?" His face brightened as he recounted our earlier visit. "Have you been singing today?" I inquired. "No. There isn't anything to sing about today." His eyes welled with tears. We talked about whatever. Not much to talk about either, I realized. When you don't know that Poland is in trouble, that inflation is reality, that winter is here, that space is being explored, you really don't have much to talk about. Even knowing that Christmas is a few days away doesn't make life happier in a nursing home. The only evidence is a tiny tree in some rooms and cutouts pasted on the patients' doors. The five-minute visit seemed like an hour. "Well, I'll come to see you next time I'm in town," I told Alfred. He started to cry, reaching his arms up like a child wanting a hug. "I'll wait for you," he sobbed. "Oh, I love you." My pride melted. I put down my handbag and gave him a hug and kiss. I had known Alfred ten minutes. When I arrived at mother's room she, too, was reaching out to be held. "I missed you. I need you to stay near me," she begged. So I sat holding her hand, rubbing her back, giving her sips of water and telling her I loved |