When the leaves fall.

Abstract

“How did we all get here?” my mother asks, referring to herself and the other residents of the assisted living facility, a residence supervised by the Hospitaler Sisters of Mercy. The answer evades me, but the question I thoroughly understand. How did they get to be the persons they are now? Beings who can no longer do the things they once could; beings who no longer possess the same vitality. As we sit in the communal garden, tranquility emanates from the well-tended greenery and flowers. It is one of the cooler days of late summer, when the sun's rays are gentle. I shake my head from side to side and shrug in reply to my mother's question as my gaze is drawn to the other residents sitting on benches. Each person an embodiment of a lifetime, each with a story most likely forgotten, each a remnant of their former selves. The air moves gently. The leaves on the flowers enshrining the stone statue of the Blessed Mother flutter. The icon is worn from the passage of time. The surface is rough from the small wounds it has sustained enduring inclement weather. The face has lost its reminiscence of a young mother, but its pose remains resolute, with arms extended at its sides and palms opened to accept the forlorn. “I'll be ninety-five this year, you know. When am I going to die?” my mother asks. “No one knows that. You'll probably make one hundred,” I reply. “Oh no, no,” my mother retorts in a higher pitch and quicker tempo. Each “no” is punctuated with an elongated pronunciation while her face is contorted and her eyes squeezed tightly shut. She often says she has lived too long. Her hearing is severely impaired, her eyesight poor, and her future barren. The zephyr has turned into a tame but stronger wind. The leaves on the trees rustle in a foreshadowing of autumn and whisper the passing of time. “I think we should go in now. It's a little too cold,” my mother states with conviction, discouraging any rebuttal. She rises slowly from the bench and pauses a moment to regain her strength and balance. We proceed at a languid pace down the winding, concrete path leading to the residence building. As we walk, my thoughts return to the statue of the Blessed Mother, and I realize it will remain in its place in the garden for as long as time will allow. It plays a role that the younger, more-vital icons cannot. It must continue to provide the Sisters a connection and continuity with their history and a reminder of their humble beginnings. We reach the entrance of the building, and I open the door. My mother cautiously negotiates the threshold as she enters unsteadily. We ascend in the elevator together in silence and wait for the doors to open. As we walk down the corridor, she grasps the handrail on the wall. When we reach her room, she opens the door with the key that she wears on a chain around her neck. She sits in her lounger and turns to me while explaining, “I give the Sister money each week to buy flowers for the altar. There must always be flowers. Do you have any money you can give me?” “Yes,” I reply and promptly hand her some cash. “Well, I have to go now,” I say. “All right,” she replies and extends her arms toward me as I bend down. She kisses me on the cheek as she always does. “Remember to call me.” “I will,” I reply. I take the elevator down, walk across the lobby toward the front door, and pass the chapel. I hear the residents reciting prayers aloud in unison. At first the words sound like babble to me, but as I get closer I distinctly hear “now and at the hour of our death. Amen.” It occurs to me how contemplative they must be of the time that is left for them. Like the Blessed statue in the garden, nothing can be done. Time will have its way, but I cannot help but think of my mother's words—words that reveal her thoughts about the final miles of life's journey. With a dignified resignation, she realizes for herself, and many of her aged contemporaries, that waiting is all that is left for them. So, as my mother said, “There must always be flowers.” Conflict of Interest: The editor in chief has reviewed the conflict of interest checklist provided by the author and has determined that the author has no financial or any other kind of personal conflicts with this paper. Author Contributions: Dominic Donato is the sole contributor to the paper. Sponsor's Role: None.