At the retirement home, each one of the resident’s names was posted on the wall beside the door to their room. Next to that there was a small display case with a couple of shelves in it, which was attached to the wall. In each case was a selection of items that presumably, either the resident or their family, had placed in there in order to spruce things up and add a little personality.
Ida Keswick:
A framed photograph of her daughter and grandchildren at Disney World. A small, framed quilt that read, “A Grandmother’s Love is Special.”
Bernice Folkes:
A wood carving of an Owl. Some potpourri in a clay bowl. A framed black and white photograph from her wedding day, arm in arm with a confident young man in uniform.
Phyllis Van Santen:
A figurine of a boy and girl fishing. A Teddy Bear. A candle holder. A bobble-head doll of a Mats Sundin.
The contents of all the displays cases were very similar, and it was very difficult to distinguish a distinctive personality from looking at them. In fact, it looked a little bit like the staff might have taken it upon themselves to do the assembly, so that those of us visiting had some visual distraction from the confined and diminishing lives of our loved ones.
It struck me as a depressing reduction, at first. The lives of the people who were living in the home, once so expansive, now distilled to a few generic items purchased at a gift shop. But soon enough, I began to see a kind of purity and connectivity to the displays. As we age, I think, vanity falls away. As we prepare to return from whence we came, a humility and honesty arises, and we find that we’re all so much more the same, than different.