A Visitation

A Visitation

She finished her breakfast downstairs in the resident dining hall. I wheeled her back into her apartment at the Senior Residence and placed her in front of the window. She likes to look outside.

I picked up my sweater and noticed a feather resting on the sleeve.

“Oh nice,” I said casually, “I found a feather on my sweater. An angel is here.”

She looked at me with alert eyes.
“What?”

“Oh, when I find a feather, I know angels are nearby,” I said, matter of fact.

Her very blue eyes sparkled and held me in a suspended silence for ten seconds. I felt she was waiting for more, so I added softly,
“I love angels.”

“I do too.”

Our morning pattern continued — the daily paper. She looks at it more than reads. Sometimes she asks me to read a caption. Sometimes I point to a picture in the advertising section and she says the word, pleased when it comes out clearly.

At eighty-seven, she has a growing brain tumour that has affected her speech and her walking, among other things. Yet she is present… very, very present.

She put the paper down and gazed out the window.

There was wonder in her eyes.

Her sentences are often hard to form. They come quickly, as if waiting even a second would make them disappear.

She blurted out,
“What beautiful colours.”

Her blue eyes sparkled again.

I turned to look where she was looking. Not wanting to pretend I saw what she saw, I asked,
“What colours do you see?”

Her mouth made an “o,” the word slow to arrive.
“Orange?”

“Yes, orange.” She smiled.
“So many.”
“So many colours?”
“Yes.”
“Do you see blue?”
“Yes.”
“Yellow?”
“Oh yes. Lots of yellow.”
“Purple?”
“Yes.”

“Do they look like the northern lights? Like the aurora—”

She interrupted, determined.
“No, it’s not that.”

Silence again. She kept looking out with wonder.

“You’re lucky to see the colours,” I said.

“So are you.”

We giggled. Her giggles feel like little affirmations for both of us.

She reached for a chair with wheels and slowly pulled it beside her, then looked back out at where the colours were.

“This chair is for Richard.”

She placed her arm on the arm rest, her fingers moving gently, as if they were holding hands. She looked at me.

“Thanks for sharing what you see with me,” I said.

She smiled and turned her head toward Richard.

I stopped asking questions.

Something calm and beautiful seemed to settle beside her, like a presence taking its seat. I simply witnessed.

Angels, I think, show up when we have the faith to notice their signs.

I love angels.