Being Beatrice

I go to see Beatrice today -  I find her  in the big lounge - one of the many sitting in a semi-circle of wandering minds,as notes from Andre Rieu's violin  float past muffled ears like so many dandelion seeds in the wind.

I tell her my name and push her comfy chair to a small private lounge.
We sit facing each other.
We are not in any hurry to go or do anything.
The room is tidy, clinical, a kitchen space, some chairs, a window curtained bright, a table.
She cannot reach these things.
She can't remember what they are for.
Someone has chosen her clothes with care
this morning; the colour of her necklace is reflected in her shirt and her nails are clean and polished.

I introduce myself again and she briefly becomes alert when I mention our common links of family and church. She starts to talk and I listen intently.
Her words are a mixed bag: here and there a run of two or three reveal a small piece of the puzzle her life has become. References to clothing, food, her sons, an old friend pop to the surface like bubbles and then evaporate into the silence.
We sit gently in the space they leave behind.

She inhabits this silence with an air of wondering, an occasional frown and then something makes her smile and she waves her hand and her eyes crinkle. I don't know what the joke is  but I mirror her delight with my smile.
Silence settles again.
There is no rush ... until ...

There is a knock on the door. A carer pops her head round the door - time to gather folk for their mid-day meal. I nod. The door closes.
I tell her again who I am and ask her if we might pray the Lord's Prayer together before I go.
She smiles.
I begin the old version and so does she.
Words emerge in their proper sequence without hesitation.
I see her lips form familiar phrases as her voice gets quieter.
At the end she says, quite firmly, " Thank you, Lord for helping me get through."
Clear as day.
"Thank you Lord," I whisper as I take her hands and kiss her cheek.
Her hair may need washing
but her spirit is sparkling.