Shush

Long ago, in another lifetime, I worked as an aide at a nursing home. Often, I would be on the floor, fastening a shoe, locking a wheelchair, just getting down to speak face to face with someone sitting in a chair. Never minded, all part of the job, and one of the more human aspects. One day, I felt a hand on my head, stroking my hair, and I lifted my eyes to see one of my elderly ladies entranced. "Such pretty hair," she said. I felt blessed, and that I was allowing her her own moment of grace, a memory of a daughter, or a sister long gone. That would not be the last time I would be touched so, and it always had the sense of pure affection.

The other day, walking down the sidewalk outside our building, I watched a woman in a large, electric wheelchair struggling. I hesitate to offer help when someone seems so independent, but the genuine distress allowed me to at least ask. She'd forgotten to put on her seatbelt, and it was caught near the wheel, her hands full of her grocery shopping. So with her permission, I got down and sorted it out, helped her get clicked in, and after a quick "anything else?" I left. Trying to be as matter of fact, and anonymous, as possible.

Some strange part of me wanted to blather on about how I used to do this all the time, oh, I'm a nurse, this is easy, I'm used to it. But I shushed it easily. Part of all of us is still seven, narrating our meagre accomplishments, hoping for praise, or preventing it out of shyness. I can smile at that overeager chatty child, listen to her, without letting her run wild. I stroke her hair, and she quiets down.

She gets to write here, as do I.