I know why the old folks sleep

I know why the old folks sleep. You know what I mean. In their homes or in an “extended care facility,” they sit in their chairs or lie in their beds and nod away. When you talk to them, they are not there. They may look at you, but they do not see you. Or they close their eyes and shut you out.

They sleep because, in their sleep, they feast on crispy fried chicken — not the Colonel’s but Aunt Bessie’s or mom’s — and plump corn on the cob, fresh from their own gardens, that gushes its sweetness down their chins — and crisp, cold, juicy apples with real flavor, from the backyard tree, not the pretty but tasteless ones from the chain grocery store — and fresh blackberry cobbler from berries picked in the upper pasture that afternoon, covered with sweet cream stripped from the cow last night and chilled all day. In their sleep, they dine on these, not the bland pureed food with just enough chunks left in it to hint at what it once might have been. In their sleep, they don’t worry if the teeth fit right, or if the hand that scoops up the food can hold it steady enough to make it to the mouth.

In their sleep, they are not warehoused in small rooms, but swing lazily on front porches throughout summer afternoons so still they can hear a horsefly buzzing on the neighbor’s porch and the cries of the small boys playing sandlot baseball down the block. They sip real lemonade, made with real lemons, hand-squeezed, and they hold forth with friends and family, now long gone, in eloquent discourse that holds the wisdom of the ages. No longer do they form simple phrases (Yes, I want to sit there) that get lost somewhere on that long path from mind to tongue. There are no more unspoken good-byes, no empty promises to return soon.

As they sleep, they are no longer trapped in bodies that betray them, refuse to obey their commands, or even to feel. In their sleep, they dance balls of long ago. They Charleston, and boogie, and waltz, with partners who have all their hair and all their teeth, and who remember them fondly. They take strolls through the park, down by the river, and up Main Street. They work hard at tasks they perform with efficiency: baking bread, raking a garden, pitching hay, milking cows, mending socks, hanging laundry, running a lathe. They make a difference, build a country. They laugh and love and live.

Yes, I know why the old folks sleep. In their place, I would sleep, too. And when I do, I hope that no one wakes me but lets me dream, and wonders where I go, until I go to where my dreams are not dreams, but eternity.