Bridge Of Sighs

I cannot imagine what world it is that she finds herself now—that place which is somehow beyond stroke. I know only that the therapists tell us if she is to return, we must somehow find ways around the damage. They, for example, suggest that the parts of brain that deal with music and emotion are unaffected and urge us to work with her accordingly.

So, every day, we have a session of, well, call it nursing home Karaoke. My father brings his recently purchased boom box and we play her everything from bluegrass to Vivaldi. I sit or sometimes kneel beside her bed and sing along, half aloud and half in whispers, songs of her youth or which she simply liked…Amazing Grace, Scarborough Fair, Frère Jacques, Silent Night, And Bingo Was His Name-O…

And thus we call her back, or try to, from that other place…with memory and mumbles, songs and snatches…across a gossamer bridge of hope.

Hope…unwarranted. Incandescent. Indestructible.