A voice was heard in Ramah.

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This cat is HDB approved.

Jocelyn A. Monique

is currently an undergraduate student, and coping with her ~~overwhelming~~ commitments. I like long walks in solitude, cosy chats, usually sleep like a log, and beg your patience in tolerating my versatile humour

a song of sixpence.

Saturday, August 02, 2008

8:22 PM

Her name is Mary.
She sat there, in the little plastic red chair in the sun, clutching a rosary in her arms. I walked up to her, the only familiar face around.
Hi Aunty Mary, how are we doing?
She smiled brightly, that silly toothless grin with a slight frown, trying to remember who I was.
Are you praying?
Oh no, just looking. Are you free now?
I think I am, Mary.
Shall we go for a walk? There's a church up there at the other end.
(I have only heard this a thousand times before, but I don't tell her. She'd probably forget again)
Oh okay.
She clutched my hands like a little child crossing a road, blatantly ignoring the sister's cries to come back. I hesitate, looking at the sister for assurance.
I don't like her, she's always nagging at me.
Oh okay.
The sister catches up, reminding me to bring her back after the walk.
Remember to bring her back, she's senile. She might forget her way.
We amble around to the other nursing home. It's amusing how a 78 year old can be so curious about her surroundings. Aunty Mary fiddles with the lock on the front gate, trying to get in. She forgets, or perhaps choses not to remember, that it's private property.
Shall we use the other side gate at the back?
I don't have a choice. I follow her. She walks over to the childrens' home, where the little girls are clearing up after their early breakfast. A girl looks at us, unsurprisingly hyper, jumps excitedly like an overwound Energizer bunny.
Be careful, dear. You might slip and fall.
I try not to laugh that it was Aunty Mary talking.
Can we go into the church, dear?
No I don't think so, Mary, it's an office.
But the mats say Welcome. That means I can go in , right?
I can't beat her reasonable logic.
Thankfully, the home guardian comes to my rescue and politely tells her that it's not a church.
Aunty Mary looked crestfallen.
I thought it's a church?
Oh no, that's on the other side. (which I had been personally telling her myself)
Let's go back then.
Oh okay.
I forgot the way, can you guide me back?
Sure.
We walk back in a comfortable silence, before she breaks into song:
Sing a song of sixpence,
pocket full of rye,
four and twenty blackbirds,
baked in a pie --
She stopped, looking at me expectantly.
I continue the remainder of the song, and she laughs.
She had forgotten the lyrics.

Her name is Mary.
I'd probably visit her again next week.

the usual suspects

Aiming
Beans
Carmen
Cereal Tossers
Deborah Faith
Hao Wen
Jacq
Joel
Marie
Ngee Derk
T Lo