His name is Myron. He’s my age. We’re two babes of the Depression, both born some place within 1933.
Myron was a scientist. He worked with other scientists in a government research facility near where we both abide – in an ALF. At his scientific work place he was surrounded by colleagues. Here at the ALF, he is alone.
Myron’s mind is untouched by age. He could have been a professor: he lets his opinion be known – loudly. He berates submissive caregivers, fellow residents, and Donald Trump – in absentia. The President gets the loudest and longest of his rants. (For those of you reading this blog sometime in the future: Yes. Incredulous as it sounds, Donald Trump was elected president in 2016.)
Unfortunately, Myron’s body pales before his cognition. It’s the usual physical degradation of aging. He can hardly hear; both of his ears are armed with hearing aids. His back, with its hunched hump, gives him the beaten down appearance of a slave, stooped and bent from picking cotton. The stoop is most noticeable when he sits to eat: he bends over so low that his nose skims the top of what he’s about to chew, as if sniffing his food prior to eating.
This prominent postural property is less apparent when Myron strides the long hallway, pushing each step forward with ski poles. Great exercise for an octogenarian.
The most identifying characteristic of Myron is how slowly he “walks the world.” I envy that, as I anxiously rush from place to place. But with Myron, every step, every movement, every action – with the exception of verbally trouncing Trump – is performed with liquid languidity.
As he eats, his face seems borne down hesitantly by some magnetic tension; he scans the food before him, and a hand limps gradually to pick up a spoon, which drowsily gathers up the anticipated bite. . . after drowsy bite. . . after…bi…te…a…f…t..e…r…b…….
Eating done, Myron rises leadenly, listlessly stretches for his cane and dilatorily ambles unhurriedly away. . . away. . . far away, to his room.
Oh, that I could be so serene!