Sit Long & Talk Much
by Anna Szczebak '16
Can you imagine it, where you’ll be in seventy years? It’s hard. Perhaps you can’t.
Perhaps you’ll be eighteen until the day you turn eighty eight and there will be no bigger
surprise. Today you thrive. You gallop and swoon and smile with young teeth, sinning eyes and
irrefutable opinions. The wrinkles in your future might as well be mountains blocking your
foresight. That’s the way of young people. I am no less naïve or argumentative then the rest of
the valiant swarm of my generation. But, I have an idea. An idea where seventy years will bring
me. I suppose you could say, I think it irrefutable.
The love of my life will have died. Maybe two years ago. Maybe two weeks ago. All I
know is that it will feel like I lost him only hours ago. In the wake of such tragedy, two
bombshells will blow my world to smithereens. It is arguable that there is a third bombshell, one
of which I will hardly be aware, despite its tendency to erupt over and over. I won’t tell, so it’s
up to you, dear reader, to identify this third perpetrator.
Bombshell one: the nursing home. I shuffle through the sliding doors (still wearing my
L.L. Bean slippers) with a frown on my face as sour as the smell that awaits each guest. It reeks
of medication, disinfectant, and runaway body fluids. This smell is unique to all nursing homes
and there are only two parties that seem exempt from absorbing the vile aroma. The first is the
nurses, presumably because they have become accustomed. The second is the elderly
themselves, as they, for the most part, are the ones responsible for exuding the sent. My
grandchildren wrinkle their noses in disgust and my son and daughter politely ignore it.
They leave not long after so I can “get adjusted.” I know better. They may be trying to
take care of me, but my not so little children still flee from their mother’s glare. You see, it
wasn’t my idea to live in a nursing home. They give a valiant effort not to look at the blistering
burn on my arm, a product of forgetfulness. My children are doing what they feel must be done.
A smarting pride and feelings of abandonment linger in the ice of my eyes and in the stern set of
my mouth. Forgiveness is not an option.
But memories rumble through my mind and soften my frown. I was once in their
position. I don’t want to relive the past so I hug my children and grandchildren goodbye. The
rumble turns to an earthquake and events from seventy years ago stick with persistence. I call
my daughter the wrong name by accident. When she leaves with tears in her eyes, I have no idea
Later, the morning itself is just awakening and the night shift nurses haven’t gone home
yet. They are tired though, sitting in desk chairs with dropping eyes and the computer alive in
front of them to create the illusion of hard work. If an alarm went off in someone’s room, they’d
be on their feet with adrenaline charged wakefulness in a split second. But as it is, they don’t
notice a slight, yet unsteady, figure slip out of her room and down the hall. I forgot shoes and
my sock clad feet slip and slide all over the floor.
I really should be using a wheelchair. My muscles are weak, my joints are tired, and my
very bones seem to shake with exertion after supporting me through all the years, through all the
good, through all the bad. But old people are characteristically stubborn and I’m no different.
The raw truth is, I’m fearful of losing my independence. I remind myself too much of someone
that meant a lot to me long ago, when I was a child.
I wander as strategically as one without a destination can, avoiding the bleary eyed
janitor and the cooks stumbling on their way to start breakfast preparations. The décor on the
walls is hopeless, colorful nature photos and signs with uplifting sayings that fail to overshadow
the fact that this is a medical institution and not a home. One wooden plaque over a doorways
reads: “Sit Long & Talk Much.” Its familiar and I catch a whiff of Christmas tree, see the
dappled morning light on the hardwood floor, feel green carpeted stairs under my feet, and hear
the pleas of children, asking if they can go downstairs to open presents. In a second it’s gone.
There is a pang of loss and confusion. Minutes later I’m still standing there, wondering why the
sign is so familiar and why there is a sudden ache of lost things.
Unsure what else to do, I walk under the sign, through the doorway, and into a little
sitting room. It’s a library. Not a very elaborate one, arguably more dust bunnies then books,
but still a library. Two atrociously patterned chairs in bright greens and purples slouch around a
slanted coffee table in the middle of the small room. A large window on the back wall emits
soft, warm morning light that creates speckled patterns across the book spines. I run my fingers
over them, reading the titles, uncaring about the dust now coating my hand.
Red cover. Purple spine. Jacket long ago lost to eager hands. Enter bombshell number
two. I pull it from the shelf, feel the familiar weight, and run my hands along the smooth pages.
I even remember the text font. Shiny letters embedded in the spine confirm my delight. My
oldest friend. I search the rest of the shelves in vain, looking for the six other books that make up
the series. Eventually, when the sun has risen to its highest point, I make my way, trembling,
back to my room. The heavy book presses harshly against the burn on my arm, ripping open the
blisters as I carry it. I don’t even notice. My oldest friend.
Later that day, during my third time reading the book, I have a visitor. She cries a lot at
first. I try to make conversation, asking her name and about her family. Eventually I let her be,
so bewildered by her sobs that I retreat into the security of the book. Finally, her waterfall stops
flowing and it’s safe to looks up.
“Tomorrow is Christmas,” she says to me. “Would you like it if I brought you the next
book?”
I nod, smiling at this kind stranger.
“My mother used to read these to me all the time. They were her favorite.” She starts to
cry again and I grab her hand. “I’ll come back tomorrow,” She repeats. “I’ll come back
tomorrow and read them to you this time.”
∞
So. There it is. That’s me in seventy years. Predictably, I’ll no longer be galloping and
swooning, just old and frail. It depends how you look at it, but I’d like to think I’ll still be
thriving. There’s always adventure possible with a book in hand, especially that book. Sorry,
but there is no moral to this story, no lesson to be learned. If you find one, dear reader, please
inform me because thus far I haven’t been able to come up with anything. If you do, I’ll probably
disagree with you anyway. There’s that irrefutable opinion again. I’m not exactly sure why I
wrote this. Maybe I was feeling too much emotion one night or missing the past or
contemplating the mysteries of the universe. I don’t remember anymore and I suppose it doesn’t
matter. But I do have one final question. Did you ever find it? Did you ever see bombshell
number three? Because I certainly won’t.
Perhaps you’ll be eighteen until the day you turn eighty eight and there will be no bigger
surprise. Today you thrive. You gallop and swoon and smile with young teeth, sinning eyes and
irrefutable opinions. The wrinkles in your future might as well be mountains blocking your
foresight. That’s the way of young people. I am no less naïve or argumentative then the rest of
the valiant swarm of my generation. But, I have an idea. An idea where seventy years will bring
me. I suppose you could say, I think it irrefutable.
The love of my life will have died. Maybe two years ago. Maybe two weeks ago. All I
know is that it will feel like I lost him only hours ago. In the wake of such tragedy, two
bombshells will blow my world to smithereens. It is arguable that there is a third bombshell, one
of which I will hardly be aware, despite its tendency to erupt over and over. I won’t tell, so it’s
up to you, dear reader, to identify this third perpetrator.
Bombshell one: the nursing home. I shuffle through the sliding doors (still wearing my
L.L. Bean slippers) with a frown on my face as sour as the smell that awaits each guest. It reeks
of medication, disinfectant, and runaway body fluids. This smell is unique to all nursing homes
and there are only two parties that seem exempt from absorbing the vile aroma. The first is the
nurses, presumably because they have become accustomed. The second is the elderly
themselves, as they, for the most part, are the ones responsible for exuding the sent. My
grandchildren wrinkle their noses in disgust and my son and daughter politely ignore it.
They leave not long after so I can “get adjusted.” I know better. They may be trying to
take care of me, but my not so little children still flee from their mother’s glare. You see, it
wasn’t my idea to live in a nursing home. They give a valiant effort not to look at the blistering
burn on my arm, a product of forgetfulness. My children are doing what they feel must be done.
A smarting pride and feelings of abandonment linger in the ice of my eyes and in the stern set of
my mouth. Forgiveness is not an option.
But memories rumble through my mind and soften my frown. I was once in their
position. I don’t want to relive the past so I hug my children and grandchildren goodbye. The
rumble turns to an earthquake and events from seventy years ago stick with persistence. I call
my daughter the wrong name by accident. When she leaves with tears in her eyes, I have no idea
Later, the morning itself is just awakening and the night shift nurses haven’t gone home
yet. They are tired though, sitting in desk chairs with dropping eyes and the computer alive in
front of them to create the illusion of hard work. If an alarm went off in someone’s room, they’d
be on their feet with adrenaline charged wakefulness in a split second. But as it is, they don’t
notice a slight, yet unsteady, figure slip out of her room and down the hall. I forgot shoes and
my sock clad feet slip and slide all over the floor.
I really should be using a wheelchair. My muscles are weak, my joints are tired, and my
very bones seem to shake with exertion after supporting me through all the years, through all the
good, through all the bad. But old people are characteristically stubborn and I’m no different.
The raw truth is, I’m fearful of losing my independence. I remind myself too much of someone
that meant a lot to me long ago, when I was a child.
I wander as strategically as one without a destination can, avoiding the bleary eyed
janitor and the cooks stumbling on their way to start breakfast preparations. The décor on the
walls is hopeless, colorful nature photos and signs with uplifting sayings that fail to overshadow
the fact that this is a medical institution and not a home. One wooden plaque over a doorways
reads: “Sit Long & Talk Much.” Its familiar and I catch a whiff of Christmas tree, see the
dappled morning light on the hardwood floor, feel green carpeted stairs under my feet, and hear
the pleas of children, asking if they can go downstairs to open presents. In a second it’s gone.
There is a pang of loss and confusion. Minutes later I’m still standing there, wondering why the
sign is so familiar and why there is a sudden ache of lost things.
Unsure what else to do, I walk under the sign, through the doorway, and into a little
sitting room. It’s a library. Not a very elaborate one, arguably more dust bunnies then books,
but still a library. Two atrociously patterned chairs in bright greens and purples slouch around a
slanted coffee table in the middle of the small room. A large window on the back wall emits
soft, warm morning light that creates speckled patterns across the book spines. I run my fingers
over them, reading the titles, uncaring about the dust now coating my hand.
Red cover. Purple spine. Jacket long ago lost to eager hands. Enter bombshell number
two. I pull it from the shelf, feel the familiar weight, and run my hands along the smooth pages.
I even remember the text font. Shiny letters embedded in the spine confirm my delight. My
oldest friend. I search the rest of the shelves in vain, looking for the six other books that make up
the series. Eventually, when the sun has risen to its highest point, I make my way, trembling,
back to my room. The heavy book presses harshly against the burn on my arm, ripping open the
blisters as I carry it. I don’t even notice. My oldest friend.
Later that day, during my third time reading the book, I have a visitor. She cries a lot at
first. I try to make conversation, asking her name and about her family. Eventually I let her be,
so bewildered by her sobs that I retreat into the security of the book. Finally, her waterfall stops
flowing and it’s safe to looks up.
“Tomorrow is Christmas,” she says to me. “Would you like it if I brought you the next
book?”
I nod, smiling at this kind stranger.
“My mother used to read these to me all the time. They were her favorite.” She starts to
cry again and I grab her hand. “I’ll come back tomorrow,” She repeats. “I’ll come back
tomorrow and read them to you this time.”
∞
So. There it is. That’s me in seventy years. Predictably, I’ll no longer be galloping and
swooning, just old and frail. It depends how you look at it, but I’d like to think I’ll still be
thriving. There’s always adventure possible with a book in hand, especially that book. Sorry,
but there is no moral to this story, no lesson to be learned. If you find one, dear reader, please
inform me because thus far I haven’t been able to come up with anything. If you do, I’ll probably
disagree with you anyway. There’s that irrefutable opinion again. I’m not exactly sure why I
wrote this. Maybe I was feeling too much emotion one night or missing the past or
contemplating the mysteries of the universe. I don’t remember anymore and I suppose it doesn’t
matter. But I do have one final question. Did you ever find it? Did you ever see bombshell
number three? Because I certainly won’t.
