I knock on Mr.Marlin’s room door.He usually doesn’t close it, he leaves it slightly open, never locked.And today is no different.The minute he sees me, a smile spreads across his face.
“There’s the country girl I’ve been waiting on to pay me a visit.”He turns his wheelchair, his back lit by the sunlight pouring through the window.
“Hello, Mr.Marlin,” I grin back at him.“Can I invite you to come for a stroll with me?”
“I thought you’d never ask!”Even when the rest of his body feels tired, his humor never fades.
I watch him take a look outside the window, and then roll his wheelchair to the door by himself.In our conversations, he always asks me questions about my life.His favorite part is when I tell him about Evermere.Evermere’s stories, the people, the nature… I describe it all for him.
His friend, Mr.Doryan, always said that the traffic and the noise were what gave him life.But so often, I find Mr.Marlin staring at the singing birds outside, at the quiet, wild parts of the city.I wonder if he would be happier somewhere else.
“Let’s start by greeting the workers at the cafeteria,” he says, tilting his head.
A man of the people.He and Miss Amara would have gotten along well.
I smile at the thought, and start to follow him.
We move through the hallways together, me walking behind as I guide his wheelchair, giving him a chance to rest, since he’s always the one pushing himself until fatigue sets in.
We stop by thearts & craftsspace, where he always asks if I’ve seen the new art projects.It’s a cozy room, filled with a variety of materials, offering patients a chance to engage in creative activities like painting, drawing, or knitting.I proposed its creation to the board two years ago, inspired by the diverse and creative offerings at the CIC.I love the one we have there and I thought that having something similar here could help with motor skills, memory recall and emotional expression.
Mr.Marlin agrees.
In a few months, it will mark two years since he was given the opportunity to come to the Center.Mr.Marlin has been receiving Social Security Disability Insurance due to his long-term inability to work.It has provided him with a steady income, though not enough to cover all his expenses.
The Elmwood Center has a special financial assistance program, funded by donations, grants from neurological organizations, and private sponsors.Every year, they offer a limited number of spots for residents who can’t afford the full cost but meet medical and care requirements.Almost two years ago, he got an approval for the scholarship, allowing him to move in.
He feels grateful to be at the Elmwood.
There’s forgiveness in his eyes.Through his lens, nothing is worth anger.
To him, the present is a true gift, even though it hasn’t been easy.He avoids talking about the past, and I can only imagine how tough those years of waiting and struggling alone must have been.Over time, I’ve gathered bits and pieces of his life, but never the full story.
I push his wheelchair around the outdoor patio.A small space, tucked between two wings of the building.Next to the lavender, three other patients are chatting at one of the two benches, enjoying the fresh air, but the towering buildings around the patio steal the sunlight before it can ever touch their skin.
“I like to close my eyes, breathe in the aroma of the plants, and tune out the sound of car engines,” Mr.Marlin says as we stop next to the other bench.“And then I imagine I’m somewhere else.”
“Where do you imagine you are?”I ask.
He remains quiet for a few seconds, then opens his eyes.“Back to the places where we were happy.”
“We should always go back to the places where we were once happy, a friend told me,” I voice it with gentle assurance, quoting Miles, who told me that phrase a few times.
“We should.Your friend is wise,” Mr.Marlin says.
My Miles,I mean, my friend, distracts my mind for a few seconds.
Mr.Marlin’s gaze seems distant.Someone must be on his mind too; hence the use ofwein his answer.
“Where do you imagine yourself when someone tells you to picture your happy place?”he asks me.
“At the beach, in my hometown, lying in the warm sand.”
His lips curve into a genuine smile.
“And you?”I ask.But he doesn’t answer.His smile doesn’t fade either.His eyes remain calm and warm, but reflective.
Two birds fly between the leaves of the maple tree in our field of vision.Never drifting apart.Where one goes, the other follows.
