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“Is this right?”
Ms. Jenkins peers down at the yarn and hooks in my hand. Scrutinizes my crochet skills with crinkles at the corners of her eyes and lips.
She pats my hand. “Such a fast learner, dear. You’ll make a hat or scarf in no time.”
“Let’s not get carried away. Plus, when would I wear a scarf? The one day a year it gets cold?”
She laughs, then lifts a hand to her mouth as it transitions to a strangled cough. Decades of smoking evident in the harsh, nonstop hack. If the doctor allowed it, she would still smoke today. But being attached to an oxygen tank and smoking doesn’t mix well. So, she quit. Now, she almost always has a toothpick in her mouth.
“No, dear. You take a trip when it’s cold up north and use it then. Thought you were smart enough to figure as much out.”
Ms. Jenkins was once a world traveler. On my days at the assisted living facility, she takes me on journeys with her stories. Adventures I dream about taking one day. My bucket list grew miles longer when I learned of all the places she’d visited.
Hiking mountains and valleys and sand dunes. Camping under the stars in the middle of nowhere without a care in the world. Witnessing the aurora borealis. Seeing the pyramids in Egypt. Visiting the Inca citadel in Machu Picchu. Wandering the hanami—aka the cherry blossom festival—in Japan.
I envy her younger, fearless years. Packing a bag and exploring the globe on a whim. One day, I want to travel the way she did. Just get up and go. When? No telling, but I made it a goal.
“Never seen snow,” I admit.
“What?” She stares at me in mock horror.
I laugh and raise my right hand. “Swear.” She shakes her head. “Where would you recommend? For a first timer.”
“You kids.” We both laugh. In her eyes, I am still a kid. Not like we bring up age, but I haven’t technically been a “kid” for fourteen years. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”
My sense of adventure is on the back burner. Who has time or money to travel? Most people my age work more than one job just to live. Me included. I work at Roar four nights a week. And although I earn enough from Roar to pay the bills, I still work two days a week at Gulfside Assisted Living.
The small paycheck from the ALF helps pad my savings and save for rainy days. But adding to my savings isn’t the sole reason I work here.
Before Gulfside, I spent several days a week with my grandma. We chatted mostly, but other memories were also made. Baking bread and cookies and pies. Tending to her small garden in the backyard. Sipping tea and coffee on her back porch while bird-watching. Organizing old photographs and adding them to albums. Short walks in the park.
Time with Grandma Isabel warmed my heart. She was a selfless woman. Did whatever she could, within her means, to help others. Always had a shoulder to lean on and offered sound advice freely. I remember her gentle spirit, and that she didn’t take shit from anyone.
When she contracted pneumonia, we all thought she would pull through. Her fighter spirit had survived much worse. But her older immune system couldn’t fight off the pneumonia. Not after all the years she smoked. Her lungs gave up the fight before her spirit.
I promised her I would give back in her memory. Help others, even if that meant contributing my time or learning to crochet baby hats. Plus, it lessens the void of her loss when I visit the residents of Gulfside. When I sit with Ms. Jenkins and talk about living life to its fullest.
“It’s there, I promise. Just have some other obligations to tend to first.”
She sets her hooks down and narrows her eyes. “I hope those obligations don’t involve a man.”
This makes me laugh harder than it should. “No, ma’am.”
“Good. Women don’t need a man to stand tall.” She looks me square in the eye. “If my Stephen was still here, he’d tell you just as much too. We loved fiercely. But he never smothered my light. He helped me shine brighter.” She lays her hand on mine. “That’s what a real partner does. Helps make you a better version of yourself.”
One day, I pray to have a love as fierce as the one she shared with her late husband.
“Enough of that,” she says. “Let’s finish. Then, you can wheel me to the dining room for lunch.”
Over the next hour, I crochet two rows of a baby hat. After I wheel Ms. Jenkins to the dining hall, I hug her goodbye and promise to see her tomorrow.
Exiting Gulfside, I text Aunt Leanne to tell her I am on my way. Every Monday, we meet for a late lunch after I finish my shift at Gulfside.
I have always had a close relationship with Aunt Leanne. She feels more like a second mom than an aunt. When Dad passed ten years ago, I made a point to spend more time with family. To never take time or the future for granted. You never know what will happen from one day to the next.
On Monday, I spend time with Aunt Leanne.
Two songs and a radio commercial later, I park in front of our usual café. We hop out, exchange hugs, and wander inside. After we order, we chitchat and catch up on what we have missed in the past week.
She asks about Ms. Jenkins and how my crocheting is coming along. Asks if Mom and Harold are well—although she checks in with Mom every other week. And then she broaches the subject of Roar. She always skirts around the Micah topic, but she doesn’t fool me. I see her secret need to ask intrusive questions and know all the dirty details.
