”Dementia waking a man in the middle of the night, asking about his wife who’s long gone. A mouth refusing to eat because Death would come faster that way. A 100 year old lady asking me to cuddle her until she fell asleep because loneliness was too heavy to bear alone, and because the darkness of night was everything but reassuring. I would lay with her on her single bed, pink duvet all the way up to our eyes in the middle of winter, and I’d be wetting her short white hair salty in silence. 

Is this what it means to be old? Calling old names with only echoes bouncing back? Running in circles trying to remember blurry faces and unforgettable dates, wishing time would accelerate to be done with it? Or decelerate to dig up the things half remembered?

 I couldn’t bear the realness of aging on a daily basis, so I quit. 

3 years later, I go back to the building. The same chef is still cooking with his good heart, and the mechanical order of things didn’t change: lunch is still served right after 12 and a tea trolley slides from room to room 3 times a day. ”