To the Manor Borne

If it is the job of a writer to sometimes see and record things that make us uncomfortable, then this blog may do just that. In this often insane world filled with an endless desire to be entertained, to escape reality, to run from the truth of aging, to elect cosmetic surgery, avoid wrinkles, and as Dylan Thomas wrote, to  “… not go gently into that good night,” the saddest places in the world are assisted living and nursing homes.

Most of the residents in such places are women. Most men usually don’t live long enough to go to one. The average stay is about three years, from personal observation.

I sat in a nursing home one day years ago observing my late mother-in-law and the others around her, and I was moved to write what follows. It is not necessary to explain my motivation. It speaks for itself.

To the Manor Borne

The quiet lethargy of death

Falls soft as April snow

She sits – hand pressed to her brow

Immersed in private woe

Eyes shut against the glare of light

Lips frowning in regret

Life stolen by the many years

But she is living yet

Around the others sit at rest

Bodies in decay

Minds grasping at remembered youth

Another endless day

Warehoused within the Manor

Old women and old men

Consigned to utter uselessness

Waiting for the end

The Master stands outside the door

His hand pressed to its frame

He waits for each – one by one

To make them young again

                                                                                                                                ©1997 – Biff Price