Ghost Walls

I am a speech therapist working in a nursing home. I don't apologize for it. I chose it. I like the old folks full of their stories. And they have so many. I still see World War II veterans on a regular basis. I see women women who still try to quilt and sew despite arthritic hands. I see all sorts of older people, white haired and rolling in wheelchairs, reaching out for me. They want to share their stories.

There is one thing that always astounds me about my job's environment. It is the pictures. Families bring in pictures of their loved ones. The old black and white or sepia toned ones, of our patients in their youths. Families want to create a sense of home, a sense of memory and comfort, despite the hospital bed and the white tiled floors.

It's the pictures that get me. I am mesmorized by them. First, you look at your patient, this little slip of a woman perhaps, usually in an ill-fitting sweat suit. Her hair is white and thin, combed back away from the hollow face. And her hands. The hands with thick tendons protruding under wafer thin skin. Then you look above her, on her wall, and see her picture when she was, perhaps 20 or so. Her hair then was thick and black, and wavy on top, and pulled back on the sides. Her mouth is painted with dark lipstick, and there is just a hint of a smile in the corners. But the eyes, sometimes piercing, are almost the same as the woman, aged 60 years after the photo, sitting in front of you. You can tell the picture and the person are the same because of the eyes.

Some patients have walls devoted to old photos. As I fed a gentleman once, spooning food into his mouth, I looked around at all his pictures. There were pictures of him, some with his wife, and a couple of his daughter as an infant. There were two pictures of what I presumed were his parents. They were in solemn black clothes, man seated and woman, her suit cenched tight at the waist, with a hand resting loosely at his shoulder. They didn't smile, but seemed to look, perplexed and angered, at the camera. I also worked with a proud woman once, whose portraits lined her walls. They represented her at all ages, but with the same stately look - beautiful dark eyes and an air of wealth about her. When I worked with her, she couldn't remember what she had for breakfast, but she could always sit with me and admire her own pictures.

My favorite pictures are the candid shots. They are in multi-opening frames usually, and all the life of the pictures put in the frames jump out at you. There are pictures of women, all looking around at each other, dark mouths open and laughing, standing with arms loosely wrapped around each other in front of white snowball bushes. Or there are pictures of men, cross-legged on a sofa with a geometric afgan thrown over the back, with cigarettes wedged in between forefingers and middle fingers. There are also some of mothers with babies on their laps. The mothers in these pictures are never looking at the camera; they are always looking over at their babies, seemingly amazed that they were able to create such a being out of themselves.

Life to me is a little like a ghost wall of pictures. There are moments that you want to freeze because they are so utterly perfect. There aren't many moments like this, but over a lifetime, you might collect enough to fit into a collage frame. But by the time you do, your pictures are old and in black and white. A feast of images of times past. But aren't we lucky that we are able to have these moments, old though they might be, that we can always admire in our minds. Like an album plastered all over the inside of our brains.

My grandmother is 83. There is a picture that my mother has of her on the steps of Inez High School. She is seated, her graduation dress spread around her, a dark, full skirt, and light colored scoop-necked top. Her hands are clasped lightly in her lap, and her held is tilted just slightly to the left. She had the most beautiful full head of black hair. My mom says there was no one more lovely than my grandmother. And that her will and resolve were strong and unbreakable. I am thankful that I have access to these images, of generations fading, to know from which I came, and to see their previous lives unfolded and real.

These ghost walls often call out to me, as if to say, Remember me. I came before you and I will come after you and I will always be. Because, really, we all spring from the images on the wall.