martha

After I’ve helped Martha, a 60 year-old personal care advocate, load her groceries into the back of the car, we both get in and I explain the poems, candies, and notebooks in the backseat. She nods in acknowledgment.

“I’m so tired of grumpy people,” she says. “I just want to punch them in the face and say, ‘What’s wrong with you?! Smile!’”

“Hmm. Well, I’ve never punched anyone, so I can’t say for sure. But I think punching someone in the face might not be the best way to get them to smile.”

“Right. Probably not.”

“But, who knows, maybe if you punch them hard enough or enough times, they’ll comply and smile.” 

Now Margaret’s unsmiling face releases the sound of a short barking laugh.

Then, her thin lips drawn in a firm, straight line, she begins an unwittingly ironic litany of complaints about the customers at the grocery store.

“Do you really have to have your family reunion in the soda aisle? Would it kill the cashier to say ‘Hello’?”

She interrupts herself to tell me of her younger sister, whom she cares for every day from 7 to 3 after a massive stroke fully debilitated her. Only then does the tight geometry of Margaret’s face relax into soft curves.

“When she worries that she is a burden, which is every day, I tell her, ‘I’m just so happy I still get to see your beautiful face.’”

We pull into her apartment complex. It is 68 degrees and sunny. There is a soft breeze and not a cloud in the sky. It is the middle of March. Children are out playing in the tiny patches of grass, squealing. Others ride bikes, shouting as they pop wheelies.

“Damn kids. You have to watch them,” she advises, “you never know what they’re up to.” 

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