Mary Beth Lundgren

Mary Beth Lundgren

WILD MAN OF THE NORTH

Sun and summer roses gone,
Wild November stands,
Hands on hips, alone.
Gray-lined fur cloak, open, flaps.
“Time to work,” he roars,
Then laughs.

Green, rust, gold, all color
gone,
Wild November’s breath
Ruffles lakes, alone.
Ground aches, frozen, cracked
with cold.
“Snow! Come down!” he yells,
and blows.

Mums and tart-sweet apples
gone,
Mother Nature calls.
Tired November sniffles,
scuffles leaves, comes
home,
And sleeps.

TIME AT THE EAGLE’S NEST
by
Mary Beth Lundgren

Ella had made her decision.
She loved the job, but twenty years was enough time at the Assisted Living Center. Her dear Jack was right. Even with him waiting at home, too many losses here at the “Eagle’s Nest” had worn her out, mind and body.
Now it was Ella’s last day. In the staff lounge, she stuffed purse and matching pumps into her locker, then sat on a bench near the window, with sunlight streaming through it, and pulled on frayed work shoes. She tightened the straps, knew she’d loosen them later when her feet swelled.

She zipped up the green uniform, with embroidered Eagle logo. Five minutes to seven. One hour till breakfast in the dining room, and her chicks, those residents who were her special charges, must be ready.
Ella passed the front desk, sang, “Mor-ning,” and her supervisor, Jenny, winked. She’d keep Ella’s secret until after today’s shift.

Toni, night supervisor on her way out, called back, “Check Racer first, would you? Bad night.”
Ella waved, already hurrying soundlessly down the carpeted hall to Room Six. Racer was Elmer Raceckowski, her current favorite. When he moved in a year ago, Racer played jazz piano, told knock-knock jokes, and taught everyone to Tango. Since then, Alzheimer’s had stolen his music, words, laughter—everything except childhood memories, people long gone. Sometimes, though, he still knew her.

Open-mouthed, snoring lightly, Racer looked his ninety-five years. But his cheeks were pink—like a little boy’s, Ella thought, and blew her nose. I won’t wake him yet.
Her other five chicks were perky and talkative this morning, even “Margaret-not-Marg,” so it was ten to eight before Ella returned to Racer. Her replacement would be younger, she thought, smiling. And faster.
Racer smiled back, and she hugged him. “What a lovely goodbye gift.”

She dressed him in his favorite yellow cardigan, long sleeves hiding bony arms covered with bruised tissue-paper skin. Any touch burst minute blood vessels beneath the skin, and her hands gentle, she helped him stand. “Good! Almost there.”
Racer breathed in, Ella’s arms under his. “Ready?”
She felt him tense, prepare mentally for the two-step journey to the wheelchair.
The next moment, he weighed Ella down. Together, her arms still circling him, they slid to the floor.
Racer didn’t breathe again.

Later, Ella covered Racer’s body with the blue afghan his wife had crocheted, then cradled the head with its military buzz-cut, slipped a pillow beneath it, bowed her head a moment.
Jack always understands, she thought.
Jenny poked her head in. “Go on now,” she said. “I’ll handle your residents while you take a break. You need one.”
“Bless your heart,” Ella said, smiled, and pulled herself up. “What I really need now is to take care of my chicks.”