for a preface, see my work stories home page.
There was a resident once, let's call her Jewel. She lived in the memory care unit, where she was continually trying to escape. She'd wait at the door, tap on the glass, her coke bottle glasses magnifying her gray eyes under a cloud of curly gray hair.
Most of the time she babbled incoherently or said nothing at all, floating through the unit like a shadow or a ghost. Once in a while she would suddenly take shape, however, and when this happened, she was one spunky woman. She has been reported saying things like, "You take the damn pills, then."
Then there came a man to visit. She recognized him instantly and stopped wandering. She wrapped her arms around him and held him, forgetting about the open door behind him, not needing to escape anymore.
He told me their story. Jewel had been his neighbor, living up the gravel road from him. He was a farmer, which means manual laborer plus businessperson plus gambler. He needed help with the books, so he asked the lovely, spunky Jewel if she would mind helping him with them, and she agreed. The rest is history.
"She wasn't really all that good of an accountant," he confessed. The sweet shy smile that played on his face told volumes. I instantly imagined him a younger single man, eating alone at the kitchen table, saying no hullos or goodbyes as he goes out to the field. Then along comes Jewel, and he's no longer alone in his big, old farmhouse. Jewel sits across from him at supper. Jewel's laughter fills the empty, echoing space. Jewel stands beside him when the market looks grim and the bills are piling up.
Now its him who fills the echoing spaces, who squeezes her hand and studies her vacant expression with that sweet, shy smile of his. Now he sits next to her though there's not many words and not much laughter.
"For better or worse," says the age-old vow.
This farmer and this accountant,
husband and wife,
are still living that vow.
For better or for worse
shows its best
in the worst.
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