A Year At The Retirement Home
I worked there for a year and a half,
serving dinner each night,
watching the rhythms of old lives unfold.
I grew closer to a man named Jack.
“Maria! Oh, Maria!”
he’d say, giggling,
as I came over to take his order.
Vodka in his cranberry juice,
a request we both knew.
Every day he’d ask,
and everyday I’d smile,
teasing him about his rough day.
I never gave it to him,
but sometimes I wished I could—
just once,
to mess with him.
Food meant more here—
salt and sweetness,
comfort on the tongue.
I watched how tastes change,
how habits form,
to keep life steady.
A little extra salt,
a bit of sweetness
holding on to what feels familiar.
I learned their ways—
who liked their food a certain way,
who needed more time to chew,
who always stared at their plates in silence,
who always had a story to tell, even if it seemed to be the same one everyday.
It became second nature—
the routine,
the knowing.
On my last day,
I brought Jack a kiwi.
A joke we’d shared since the beginning—
he’d ask for a kiwi with his dinner,
knowing there wasn’t a chance of me finding one in the kitchen.
I handed it to him,
and he laughed,
tears formed in his eyes.
I didn’t know if it was right to ask,
but he opened his arms,
and I knew
a hug was all that was left to say.