The Lost Things | Teen Ink

The Lost Things MAG

February 19, 2013
By Ayla23 BRONZE, Barnet, Vermont
Ayla23 BRONZE, Barnet, Vermont
1 article 0 photos 2 comments

Looking up, I realized that what I had thought were leaves were small birds.

I laughed. The nurse’s head shot up; I thought she was going to make a bustling beeline toward the window, but Maurice conveniently shuffled into her path, cutting her off before she could reach me.

With the nurse thus occupied, I pushed myself closer to the window and slid it open, letting the cool, fresh air flow over my fingers and forearm. The birds murmured to no one in particular, and I let this music drown out the sounds of the assisted-living facility, burying my fingers in the wind.

When you’ve lived as long as I have, you begin to forget things.

The small things are lost first. Names and appointments escape you, like socks, loose change, earrings. This ­is a mildly irritating phase, but nothing that you haven’t experienced in decades past. The only difference is the frequency of the forgetting, and the significance of the things forgotten.

Strangely, the things you do remember are not important at all: the model of the car that cut you off on the freeway one day, the batting averages of the Red Sox for 1976, the flowered apron your mother wore as she made you breakfast. These somehow stay, as though encrypted with some hidden importance, as though these are the only things your psyche cares to keep.

Occasionally, there’s a glimpse. Of the past, of the lost things. It is then that you should pay attention, because there’s no telling when you’ll see them again.

My daughter Lina came this ­afternoon, a reminder that it’s the second Sunday of the month. Before ­Allison died in the car crash, she had been the oldest, and thereby the one burdened with the responsibility and guilt of caring for me; now, the role of Second Sunday Family Visitor falls to Lina.

She burst into the room in typical fashion, handbag swinging over one elbow, phone hastily tucked into some pocket, heels clacking her greeting. We hugged hurriedly. I told her she was too thin; she adamantly defended her voodoo vegan diet, which, to my understanding, consisted of parsley and Nutella; she asked how my new medication was working; I asked how things were going with Jack or Mark or whatever his name is, and the kids; she talked about the family; I talked about my health; she glanced at her watch; I feigned fatigue; she gratefully fled the scene. The wind sucked the ­curtains into their frame.

I rolled to the bed and tipped my chair back, so that I was resting on the emergency stops; reaching under the mattress, I felt around until I found what I was looking for – the sunflower seed bag. I pulled it out and hastily stuffed it under my shirt, yanking my chair back to its regular position just as the nurse bustled in.

“Good afternoon, Grace,” she beamed, setting out my medication. Fun cups of blue, red, pink and yellow-striped candy pills – such ­variety, such choice – all were laid out before me. A world of medical miracles. I chose the smallest (the blue) to start. Once I had swallowed the last of my pills, the nurse wheeled me out into the hall to join the others.

I should say that we have quite a motley crew here at Montevielle. Jim used to be a Major League pitcher until he was drafted; Moritz was an architect who helped construct the building in which Warhol’s “factory” was created, though he never imagined it would turn out the way it did. Helen was once renowned for her musical abilities (she played piano at the Kennedys’ wedding); Maurice was a war correspondent during ­Vietnam. Then there are the great-grandmothers and fathers, and great-great-grandmothers and fathers, whose histories are filled, it seems, with the raising of children and grandchildren, whose lives were spent giving life to others.

And then there’s Jorge.

The oldest member of our assisted-living community, Jorge is a bald angel, sent by fortune from the Baptist pulpit to the soup kitchens of Oakland and finally to Montevielle by a kind-hearted social worker. Since his arrival, he has settled into the table in the back of the room like a great spider, building his web of trust with the residents, his thick fingers linked loosely over his great, tweed-covered belly, waiting for us to seek him out. The nurses, those oblivious dears, do not realize the power this man holds; they do not realize half of what occurs in this facility.

His talents reputedly extend from the mystical to the practical; he has soothed nightmares, healed relationships, eased aches and pains unaffected by pills and treatments. It only takes a minute or two; he simply talks to the afflicted in his deep, gravelly voice. Through the tone and resonance of each syllable, it’s immediately clear that
his is a voice that holds ­answers.

The bag of sunflower seeds was nestled against my stomach. His fees are fair but strange; one proffered bag of sunflower seeds reaps one favor (or “mission,” as he calls them). I had had to smuggle the seeds from the nurse’s purse three days ago in the park. (Louis had helpfully feigned a coughing fit.) Now, as I saw Myrtle hobble off to a cribbage match, I saw my chance.

Approaching him, I realized just how large he was. Even in his wheelchair, he towered over me. I unearthed the sunflower seeds and held them out. He accepted the offering, tucking it in his breast pocket. He stroked his moustache, and looked at me. “What can I do for you?” he drawled.

I swallowed, and glanced out the window. “I want to remember,” I said quietly. “My memory is getting worse by the day … and I have a lot of life to remember.”

It was hard to tell what he was thinking.

“Well, all right then,” he said finally. “Let’s get started.”

Outside, I heard a sudden rush of wings, and knew that the tree was bare. I smiled, closed my eyes, and watched.

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This article has 6 comments.

Cam_is_Away said...
on Jun. 14 2015 at 12:15 am
Cam_is_Away, Non, California
0 articles 0 photos 116 comments
Am I the only one who cried?? Am I seriously just that emotional? Oh, your story was so touching to me. With my own experiences, your story brought tears to my eyes! Wonderful story indeed! Nelley is right, she put it well, the woman's words are melancholy, so very bitter sweet. I feel a mixture of emotions - oh, you did such a great job! Fantastic, this is definitely one of my favorites on TeenInk!! Congrats, you definitely deserved to be in the magazine.

Katie1234 GOLD said...
on Mar. 26 2013 at 12:08 pm
Katie1234 GOLD, Velva, North Dakota
10 articles 0 photos 77 comments

Favorite Quote:
"When life becomes more than you can stand; fall to your knees"
"To be normal is to be boring."
"You cannot make men good by law."
"Christians believe that Jesus Christ is the son of God because He said so."
"To be a Christian means to forgive the inexcusable, because God has forgiven the inexcusable in you."

I red this in the magazine and simply loved it. I highlight things that I find simply amazing in the printed articles and there is more highlighted on this than not.  I'll only comment on a couple of the twelve things I wrote down.   "Strangely, the things you do remember...the flowered apron your mother wore as she made you breakfast." For this paragraph, I wrote on the side that is so small, but it is so crucial. It really allows the reader to understand how the narrator feels.    I love how you broke down the many people in the home. You created such amazing diversity in a very short amount of time.   The last thing I'll comment on should have probably been the first thing. " When you've lived as long as I socks, loose change, earrings." These are the 3 sentences that really drew me in to the point that I knew I had to finish reading. Most people strive so hard to get the reader's attention in the first sentence that it throws the piece off. You managed to avoid that, so I congratulate you.  Thanks for providing another piece for the favorites!

Ayla23 BRONZE said...
on Feb. 23 2013 at 9:23 pm
Ayla23 BRONZE, Barnet, Vermont
1 article 0 photos 2 comments
I'm so glad you liked it! =) Thank you so much for your comment- I really appreciate it!

Ayla23 BRONZE said...
on Feb. 23 2013 at 9:21 pm
Ayla23 BRONZE, Barnet, Vermont
1 article 0 photos 2 comments
Thanks, Nelley! I realized that the ending was a bit unclear, but I wasn't sure how else to end it- any ideas you have would be really appreciated! =)

on Feb. 23 2013 at 8:35 pm
ten_cent_lemonheads SILVER, Marshfield, Vermont
5 articles 0 photos 3 comments

Favorite Quote:
"You, and only you, will have stars that can laugh." - St. Exupery, author of The Little Prince

Wow, this is really exquisite writing. So sweet and human--absolutely lovely.

MayaNelle GOLD said...
on Feb. 20 2013 at 1:07 am
MayaNelle GOLD, Palo Alto, California
17 articles 0 photos 23 comments
I really enjoyed this. I love the meloncholly feeling that this woman gives off, and your writing is really, just, awesome. The ending was a tad confusing, but otherwise it was very good