The end times

"Yes, you told me before," I said to the woman at the desk who only wants to live three more years. She's scared she'll live longer, because she's so healthy. Never had the flu, hadn't been sick in over 20 years. (But she needs new knees and had serious kidney stone surgery a few years back, remembers exactly how much it cost.) "It's so hard living in this body," she said, nodding at her walker. Her last roommate left such a mess that her friend's husband came over and cleaned the room out in two hours. It would have taken her days.

 

She did have two covid shots because she works here. "You know people spit on you when they talk," someone told her. Her face wrinkled. She believes in Jesus, in heaven and hell. Worries about her son, who does not. She prays for him. She left a small church (of 300) because they didn't do any social distancing. One woman died of covid. Now she's at Calvary, where the pastor preaches about the end times. 150,000 tune in on zoom to hear him. 

 

The other year she stopped doing her Christmas tree; she'd collected ornaments for decades. She spread them out on the table, Macy's style, and gave them to her children and grandchildren so they could start their own Christmas rituals. One son is in his mid-50s. 

 

Lilith and I moved out of the way of a woman with a large white flower display attached to a frame. There were lots of funerals today. Lilith and I wandered up hill. On our way down, we saw the man in black, showed him the photograph I'd taken of him, told him S was happy to hear about him, got a quick hug and hurried home in the hot sun. Lilith's on the couch now, nose on her blanket.