Peaches to Heartbreak

“Play Justin Bieber peaches,” she said.

So I did, I typed in the artist's name and song title without adding clean version to the tail end of the search.

With her being a senior-aged adult, it was rather unexpected, and somewhat entertaining, that she sang along with enthusiasm to most of the lyrics. Our blue face masks, overlapped by face shields, bobbed to the tempo. You could tell just by our eyes that we were smiling.

About halfway through the song, she took a quiet pause. While slightly slouched in her chair, chin relaxing on her chest, her tongue pushed out her lower lip. Excess saliva reflected the afternoon sunshine. I wondered, was this a signal that meant she had reached her threshold for this song? Then, in a smooth and rather swift motion, she brought the collar of her shirt upward to her chin and swept her saliva away just in time to sing, “Badass Bitch.” Animation resumed, keeping steady with the beat. This made our eyes crinkle at the sides a little more.

Beep!

Mechanical sounds that are hidden in the push bar of a door unlock and grant me access.

One manual pump sound of an alcohol-based hand sanitizer dispenser.

Palms rub and fingers interlace while waiting for the door to shut. Click.

Mechanical sounds that are hidden in the door now grant me permission to walk away.

She would ask, "Would you like me to sing you a song?" in the same way that a host would offer comforts to guests while in their home. Our return thanks was to simply listen. Her vocal chord muscles had kept their ‘muscle memory’. This was demonstrated to us from a side lying position. Alongside of her chest was a medium-sized stuffed animal. Her arms tenderly wrapped around it. She sang to us a beautiful sounding choir song. After that, she sang a song about the loss of a parent from the perspective of a small child. Pain had woven itself into this melody. The heart, like the vocal chords, is also a muscle. It was as though her heart muscle also had memories. Maybe sad ones from a long time ago.

Whenever it is announced that outbreak measures have been lifted and everyone can now choose to remove their PPE, you will hear the subtle sound of the whole building giving a sigh of relief.

Without all the personal protective garb about your head to muffle spoken word, you may still find yourself in a kind of soft and gentle silence. He sat quietly. Being non-verbal with a flat affect was his way on most days. But at the sound of my voice, his gaze slowly shifted over towards my direction. And with a slight move of his head upwards, he looked at my eyes. I watched these light blue eyes move over the details of my face. I held my smile and became more aware of it in the moment. His gaze then shifted over to my name badge. My cue to say my name and continue. I did only hear the sound of my voice. But he said much more in his gestured reciprocation.

It's the kind of place with a communal dining room. Outside of the regular hustle and bustle of meal times, it stands rather stark in its appearance. Right now, at the far end of this dining room sits its only patron. And this patron knows my name. Almost every time when I arrive, the first thing I hear is, “ROOOOXANNE!” in reference to that song by The Police titled, “Roxanne.” Their voice fills this empty dining room. From my own personal experience, it’s pretty common for people to sound like they are wailing when they sing this part. I've imagined it to be like some kind of cathartic release--especially when they get all squinty eyed. At the very least, it has gained some chuckles by those in earshot. On other days in this same dining room, I would trigger, "ROOOOXANNE, you don't have to put on your red shoes." (I don’t have to put on my red shoes? Well, that’s good news. They already sound not as comfortable as the runners that I have on.)

At this point, goodbyes are pretty common. And thank-yous tend to compliment these goodbyes. It sort of sounds like this, “Yes, you, too! Take care. Thank you. Bye, bye. Thank you so much. Yes, we will miss you, too! Bye, now.”

And then I heard, “She’s crying in her room.”

She was sitting at the edge of her bed. Her dangling feet in white tube socks barely touching the floor. Half-ready to scuttle her shoes on and release the plastic clickety brakes of her four-wheeled walker. Through her tears, she sweetly said, “…because I’ll miss you guys. Because you're leaving me.” As this continued for a bit, her words revealed true fondness and true feelings of abandonment. Heartbreak was making a sound. It was her sweet, fragile voice. Pangs even passed through my chest while standing at the edge of her sadness.

The sound of my inner voice registered that this was not how things were supposed to go. Isn't it that when we try to give to others, it really just helps us? If you are open to learning a lesson, it will come. Loneliness sometimes just needs one question. And it will then assemble a sea of words on its own. Be especially gentle with departures, for our sake.