The old person singing — doesn’t have to be a man just because it’s my voice — this old person…it’s late in their life yet somehow they’re not at home.
The place looks familiar: a bed, a chair by the window. Behind a door there’s a sink and toilet. But the shower’s down the hall. So is the food…in a large room with stained upholstery and tired drapes, where the tables are always set and rarely used.
But no kitchen. What’s a home without a kitchen? If you want tea or a bit of chocolate…you ask someone and then wait to see if it comes.
The hall, hung with no art – just doors and doors – turns into a lobby-lounge. An old TV in a cabinet plays shows from TV Land, but no one seems to watch.
What are you doing?
Waiting.
For what?
My daughter. My son.
Sometimes they come, but they never stay. Others never come.
These old people have gadgets now. They make calls, send voice messages, texts. But old eyes and hands don’t work like they used to. Those people, who can’t see or write, they just…call out. Sometimes, they sing.