Irma's Bright Sun

“Oh, what a glorious day,” she said with affirmation, with intent, with just enough enthusiasm for the surprise of a new beginning despite what living had done to her. Irma greeted the morning sun with arms stretched wide, sliding open the faded pink curtains, pausing in her gaze, the light illuminating her frail, ivory skin, wrinkled in time and stories. Standing in the doorway, I watched her like an audience member watching a soloist; she had that effect on people.

“Good morning, Irma!” My voice sounded like a cheerleader against her smooth and velvety tone. She stayed locked into her view out a window streaked from old raindrops, the latch bolted shut preventing any fresh air from getting in, or residents getting out.

“Good morning, child” her voice clear and directed at me without the crutch of a look. “Shall we begin our day? I am ready for the final essence of time.”

“Absolutely!” I chirped moving into the room while looking at her chart. It was pure formality; Irma didn’t take anything but one pill, and even then, I wondered if she ever swallowed it. “Wait, what…essence of time? Dang that’s deep, Irma.”

She turned around as I looked up, removing the decorative pin holding her silver hair in a bun, the long strands falling softly onto bony shoulders. It made her look ageless; she was grace in a body.

“Irma, you look beautiful." The corners of her mouth titled up in a slight smile as I watched her move.

It wasn’t far to travel from the window to her chair, her small room in juxtaposition to her vast world. The walls displayed fading color memories of Irma in her prime – on a fishing boat reeling in a giant sea bass; standing in her front yard with a pigeon on her head, a cat in her arms and a dog sitting at her feet. Then there was the framed black and white next to her bed of Irma and her lover leaning into each other, martini glasses in front of them, cigarettes in the hand not holding the other. Along with her pictures, Irma was a seasoned storyteller of her past: the war, her errant youth, her secret to longevity. She had been a lover of men and animals, of which she had plenty. But no family. None. I looked at her stuffed animals on the bed, disappointed real ones were not allowed.

“Shall I help you get dressed this morning?” I offered, moving towards her one closet, adjacent to the assigned dresser, made personal with a lace doily runner. It was a reminder of the contradictions in Irma: her hard interior to the feminine exterior. I was never quite sure which one was the façade or maybe she was the exception to the rule and both parts were equal to her spirit.

She came towards me with a soft shuffle in her slippers, her off-kilter wobble the most noticeable sign that hardships had taken up residence in her joints. She stopped short of passing me, placed her delicate, veined hand on my shoulder and with glassy bright eyes, looked directly at me. It caught me off-guard.

“No, dear, I’ll tend to myself today.” It was firm, but grateful and soft in delivery.

"Okay, awesome," I exhaled, feeling proud of her and meaning it. "I'll have more time to just chill with you."

"That would be lovely, dear."

With years of practice, she sat down in her recliner, finishing the exercise with a clear sigh and turning her gaze back out the window. She looked focused, as if the view was transporting her somewhere in time. I rolled her tray of food and single pill to the side, leaned against the chair and joined her in a long look.

Irma began life abandoned in World War II. She was the byproduct of Hitler’s breeding experiment where young, stark white, blond, and blue-eyed women were paid to give away their children of the same ilk – Lebensborn they called it. She was dropped off to an orphanage, as was her baby sister the following year, neither of them ever knowing their mother, nor much of each other. She spoke of burlap potato sacks for clothes and wooden buckets for the occasional washing; scarce food scraps and cold, harsh punishment. She remembered the parades. "Always the parades," she would say. "They put us on display. We had to raise our arms up high, like this, our little thumbs tucked next to little fingers and stand there shaking and cramping until the Fuhrer passed." She would sometimes demonstrate, making us both nervous when she did.

Irma stayed in the orphanage until 17, meeting a US soldier and moving to California, away from her homeland but never away from the memories that snuck into her behavior: resourcefulness, tenacity and resilience against all odds. She divorced right away and became a working woman, learning English while immersing herself in jobs – the liquor store, the pawn shop and eventually the fishing boat where her salty no-bullshit ways earned respect and the ability to buy her own home.

She was a walking dichotomy, her frugal nature belying her extravagant thoughts and rich personality. She spoke of taking “spit baths” in her garage with a garden hose and a plastic bucket; she saved her Sunday bath water for the roses and when walking her little dog, Irma would find treasures in others’ trash. She was resourceful, except when it came to clothing. Clothes always mattered to her; those memories of scratchy burlap sacks were now covered in fine silk scarfs and soft cashmere sweaters. She dressed daily in matching colors, aiming for function as well as form. On special occasions, Irma wore big, bulky jewelry but only while in the safety of her own room, the fear of someone stealing it ever present.

"Ahem." Irma cleared her throat, prompting me back into the room.

“Well,” I responded, stepping back literally and figuratively, “looks like another beautiful day, my friend!” I felt a tinge of inauthenticity trying to not placate her, but she was too quick, too experienced, too aware. She only nodded in agreement.

“Today is my special day, dear one.”

“Oh it is? How so?”

“I’ll be dying later.”

“What? Irma what are you talking about; you’re not dying, at least not yet. My gosh you only take one pill a day for heaven’s sake.”

“Oh, but I am my child. It is my time. But I will make it a good one, for a dying sun shines brightest on its last day.” She looked again out the window, a cloudless sky on display.

"Irma, are you quoting poetry again?"

"For the most part, yes. Diamonds by Nikita Gill. When you remember me, I hope you will read her work."

I kissed her forehead; it was warm and oily, the opposite to my own dry and dying skin. “Sure thing, Irma. But please don’t die, at least not today. I’ll miss you too much. Plus, you’ve got a mean game of poker later in the game room.” And with that I turned to leave.

“Ellen.”

She stopped me cold, not just with my name but in her tone; I sensed her taking me in.

“Thank you.”

“Thank you for what Irma? You know I love you.”

“I love you too, child.”

I got busy with my shift walking long shiny hallways delivering blue pills and Jell-O, ice chips and cold eggs. I spent the morning pulling back tall yellow curtains to greet silent, quiet bodies, most covered in crocheted blankets, TVs keeping them company. Parked near the nurses’ station were Charlie and Vance, the war bonding them as much as their age, Frida with her baby doll and Mary, lucid in her own fantasy world. They sat mostly upright, but mostly kind of folded into chairs with wheels, their time in the lobby like recess for the infirmed.

Time matters here, at least it does to the staff. Pills and food, bodies turned, sheets changed, it’s all on a strict schedule. Time matters in this way, but I’m not so sure how time matters to them, the residents.

And now it was time to take Irma to her poker game. I returned to her room where she sat in her chair, combed hair softening her jaw, her treasured amethyst and silver necklace on display against her smooth decolletage. Her head was tilted to her left shoulder, heavy in the crook of the chair. Her bright eyes were closed but her mouth was open - the kind of open when muscles let go with the rest of the body.

I moved to Irma, and kissed her forehead; it was now cool to the touch; her entire being left radiating in a high noon sun.