Creative Example: Commemorative Piece

Written in commemoration of Trudy, whose presence I cherished and miss. 30 January 2020

Trudy lived in room 231, in the furthest hall from the entrance of the nursing home. She was frail and thin, often hunched over and shaking, contrasted by the soft, warm smile that greeted her every visitor. Her hair was as white as the apparitions that sometimes haunted her aging and ever-delirious mind, and her posture had shifted permanently to the left, causing her head to dangle just on the edge of the back of her chair. When she looked at you, her gaze would focus beyond your eyes. You could see in her face the clouds that fogged her mind.

Every day, Trudy sat in her dull, blue chair, her hands placed neatly in her lap as she stared at nothing in particular. Her entire world was the room she lived in; I never once saw her leave through the door that sat just out of reach. It was rare to find her anywhere but sitting quietly in the chair that had practically molded to her figure.

The floor of Trudy’s room was always sticky, and no one seemed to know exactly why. Many assumed that her trembling hands spilled her routine glass of lemonade, leaving a sweet and sugary residue on the tiles. Housekeeping had been through that room too many times to count, working tirelessly to scrub away whatever was stuck to the ground. Despite their efforts, all who entered the room would leave with sticky footsteps that echoed through the halls.

In a way, just like the floor, Trudy stuck to you. She wasn’t much different from the other residents that lived around her, but in her own unique way she would show you that she cared for you, even if you were only there to serve her meals. Trudy didn’t like us working too hard for her; despite her slow pace and shaking gait, she insisted on dressing and maintaining her hygiene herself, working slowly through the day to complete the little tasks that a young and healthy person could accomplish in half an hour. Oftentimes, when we would enter the room with her food in our hands, she would laugh a rumbling, quiet laugh, ordering us to eat it ourselves; she needed the nutrients more than we did, but nevertheless, her motherly instincts insisted that we never finished a shift without eating.

On the far end of the room, next to the window that overlooked the facility garden, sat a dresser half-covered by a half-finished blanket. Expert combinations of color were intricately braided through one another, and the sight of something so beautiful left unfinished always left a twinge in my heart. I sometimes wished that I could spend the day knitting in the vacant chair that sat across from Trudy’s, keeping her company as I completed the task that her hands could no longer accomplish. Once, when I entered the room to check on her, I asked Trudy if she had made the blanket herself. She told me that the blanket was her sister’s; whether it was meant as a gift or was simply a means to ease the burden of time, she didn’t know. Just before the blanket was completed, Trudy’s sister passed away; since then, the blanket sat abandoned on the dresser, forever unfinished.

Eventually, it was Trudy’s birthday. That day was the first and only time I had ever seen someone visit her. Half a dozen members of her family were packed into the small apartment, briefly celebrating the passing of time that so cruelly deteriorated the woman in front of them. But as suddenly as they came, they left, leaving nothing but a shining aluminum balloon that swept gently against the curtain.

After the visitors drove away, I came to wish Trudy congratulations. Her face beamed brighter than I had ever seen, and before I could leave, she asked me to stay, masking her desperation for company with hospitality. I was busy, but the day was coming to a close, and I knew that a few minutes wouldn’t do much harm. The dusty chair I sat in had been used more times that day than any other day I could remember. For a while, we talked. She spoke to me about her family and about her life, drifting through the happy memories that had surfaced on her special day. The once absent woman looked full and content, a change brought about by such a simple act of remembrance. The facility felt unusually calm that day, as if to grant the suffering woman one short day of relief. I sat and listened for as long as I could, but eventually, I too had to leave.

That was the last time I saw Trudy. As my education and goals became more ambitious, I knew I had to bring my time working at the home to a close. Every now and then, I think of those I cared for, with the somber knowledge that their lives hadn’t changed in the slightest since my departure.

Trudy, with her repetitive routine, was not alone in the nursing home. Aside from the lucky few that could walk on their own feet and think with their own heads, many of the residents sat in their rooms, day after day, staring at the same four walls that they had stared at for far too long. I think about the lonely emptiness of the cookie-cutter rooms, filled with hollow decorations that could only fill the space so much. Far too often, the residents of the home would pass away alone. The families that had placed them there had no intention of visiting, and their only company would be the staff, tinted with the indignity that comes from being so wholly dependent on another human being. We often forget the simple gesture of company. I have not only seen, but experienced firsthand the toll that isolation can play in the life of a human being. It darkens the thoughts and the lives of those affected by it, turning kind and happy people into sad and empty ones.

Human compassion, simple or abundant, is truly the greatest virtue that a person can hope to achieve. The lives of the people we choose to give it to have the ability to drastically change for the better, turning dark, looming clouds into a soft and gentle breeze. It is an unmatched gift of kindness that I sincerely hope will one day be more widely utilized, softening the combative and hostile nature of the world around us. Until then, I’ll do what little I can, caring for those who need it and those who don’t; and maybe, one day, when I’m as old and frail as Trudy of room 231, the world could hope to be as bright as the patches of her unfinished blanket.