“Hellerman Retirement Home.”
The name is on the front of the building and printed on the stationary provided to the residents. Stationary most of them don’t use. Why bother? No one answers.
You wrote letters when you first arrived. Your children didn’t respond. They said,
“No one writes letters anymore. People text or email.”
The grandchildren rolled their eyes and sighed when you asked them to write you a letter.
You stopped writing. You don’t make phone calls either. No one has time to talk. When you called, they were impatient. You interrupted their favorite TV show.
They made promises to come see you. “This weekend,” they said. “Next weekend at the latest.”
They didn’t visit.
You leave your room and walk the halls. Residents wander aimlessly. Shuffling. You hear crying from some rooms, sometimes incoherent mumbling. Some voices are clear.
“Why am I here?” one voice asks. “I want to go home.”
You walk. You hear another.
“Maybe today, someone will come visit. Maybe today.”
You realize you said it. You also realize you say this every day, and no one ever visits.
You pass others with gray skin, their eyes anxious and fearful. Some are clearly in pain.
You have pain, but you no longer complain about it. No one believes you. Or they simply don’t care.
The staff are overworked, tired, drained. Some staff are angry, and a few are physically abusive. They explain the cuts and bruises on the residents with a dismissive, “They fell. Lost their balance. It happens.”
They are careful to only hurt the ones that can’t talk. The ones with vacant expressions.
Sometimes you envy the ones with vacant expressions. Sometimes.
You think about leaving. Taking off your slippers and putting on your shoes and coat. Out the front door. Just walk and don’t stop.
Where would you go? No car. No driver’s license. No money. It’s cold out. You could get lost. Get hurt. Fall and not be able to get up. Freeze. Starve.
You remember the days when you could get in your car and drive anywhere. To see the kids. To go to the movies. To the store and buy what you wanted to eat.
There were days, too many to count, when you hated doing such things. You hated going to the store and buying groceries. Going to work. Those freezing mornings of clearing snow off the car, wishing you could have stayed in bed. Then rushing to grab a bagel and a coffee, and cursing at the red lights because you were going to be late.
Funny how you miss those days. That freedom of movement. Funny how you would do anything, give anything, to have those days back. Driving. Working. Shopping. Eat when you want. Sleep when you want.
You walk back to your room. Take a piece of the stationary. Place a hand over the letterhead that says “Hellerman Retirement Home.”
Your hand covers most of the letters except the first four.
“Hell.”