The Essence of Nell

The old people in my family were not hidden away in nursing homes. My great grandmother who lived with her daughter Lucille, was a calm quiet figure, sitting in the shade of a pecan tree, shelling beans or darning socks, never too busy to hold one of us on her lap. As my family members aged it seemed to me that they just became more vivid, more themselves. 

            My own mother, Nell, who had learned early in life how to be a charming and diplomatic southern belle, became more plainspoken as she aged. Even in her nineties, as she faded into long periods of silence, you felt the strong presence of her being, as if the essence of Nell was even more present in her long silences. Her warmth and curiosity shone out of her. And occasionally she would surprise us. The women who came to her home to help us care for her often shared the most intimate details of their personal lives with Nell, knowing their secrets would be safe with her. Once one of them, who had perpetual boyfriend problems, was telling me about going to a Halloween costume party. Her boyfriend was going as a dirty old man. My mother, who had appeared to be napping and who hadn’t spoken a word in weeks, opened her eyes and said, “Then he won’t need a costume.”  

            Last week I went to at a party and met Carolyn, an eighty nine year old woman who lives in an apartment above the general store in Charlotte, Vermont. Climbing all those stairs keeps her strong. She says she tells people she’s in her ninetieth year because it sounds better than eighty-nine. When she left the gathering to drive herself home she turned to all of us and said, “I love you. At my age now, I can say that to you.” 

- Anne Damrosch is a published poet and writer living in Burlington, VT