knocking on heaven's door

There are four of them. One of them walked the halls with her walker in front of her; another sat quietly at a table, alone with head bent. The third was a bit more wily, outside with a cigarette soaking up the sun. The fourth was waiting to see the nurse; patiently sitting on the chair outside the door.

They were all women, all in their 80's (late 70's maybe, because nothing ages you like hard living). Three had walkers. All were alone. White hair, one perhaps in a wig. Clothes are rumpled slightly, yet purses proudly on their arms. Lipstick, I think. Clip on earrings for one. Sensible shoes, except for the one who only had on socks.

Grandmothers, at least one or two of them. Perhaps one was childless. Maybe the last has adult children who've died. I don't know their stories, but I heard through the grapevine that one of them has a son who calls and checks in on her, the nice son that he is. I can only imagine dialing the phone to make that call Just wanted to make sure that my mom is fine sleeping at that big shelter with her walker. Send her my love. And hey, sleep tight!

If there is anything that breaks my heart in two it's elder homelessness. Kids, see; they've not lived yet, they have time to recover. It might even seem normal. I've found enough ways to rationalize that over the years. Right or wrong and much easier before M, I could make that fit in my head and do my job. But the elders, they know what hell they are in, that after living a whole other life this is how the curtain falls. Just passing time waiting to die. Full of wisdom and maybe bad choices. Ungrateful children and bad luck. Alone.

Even now, after all these years and so many grandparents it still brings tears to my eyes as I type. I don't know the stories of these beautiful women yet. But I do know that this is no place for them. Their vulnerability suffocates me and again I question the reality we allow each other to live in.