The Archaeology of Personality

Trishalishus, PhD, CNS

Renee lies in bed all day; refusing to come out to play

at being 'good' the way They say she should.

Marg'ret likes to scream and shout - she really throws her weight about

and everyone about the place dreams of pillows - and her face.

Barry! Ah, Barry - now there's a man in such a hurry:

Barry doesn't want to eat (the man is dying on his feet).

Or Bob - take Bob, you who deserve ... help: he lives to serve

and to please; spends his days in helpful ways.

Nuuuuurse... NURSE! I hear the echo down every hall.

It speaks of fear and pain... the lonely sigh of sad disdain.

The wizened screw their faces up to weep

at what they don't remember;

at what? They don't remember.

"Excuse me, please? Please take me home - I can take the bus -

"I promise I won't make a fuss - Okaaay, I guess I'll stay another day."

"I need to go; I really, really need to go. Now, I mean - NO NOT in ten!"

"You bite or slap and I'll bite you back!"

"Oooops - too late - oh Marg'ret, no; please, not again!"

"If you ever listened to a word I said, we'd both be dry, and that's a fact."

"Can anybody see where Peggy is at? Oh - there you are. Thank God for that!"

"Where's my puuuuurse?"

"Nuuuuurse... NURSE!" The bleak repeats from jumbled sheets

and fumbled bells and tumbling minds that only briefly sleep.

I am bringing tea and lozenges and, perhaps, love's ease.

Really? Why? They don't remember;

really. Why - I remember for them.

Soldier, sailor, World War 2; housewife, professor, Woodstock - toot tooter!

"Hello? Halloo! - Here comes Beryl, on her new red scooter!"

Bob is feeding Sally jelly; gently spooning runny goo through unresponsive lips.

"Where's my puuuuurse?"

Beryl cannoned into Barry (he's not in such a hurry, now. He's on a drip).

Renee passed away, today - no flowers, thanks, but pass the plate -

We can't let her go to a pauper's grave.

"I knew the gal when we were young - she did some marvelous things, once."

"Do tell, Marg'ret - I had no idea! (She takes delight in my shocked surprise).

"Oh curses... NURSE! The years bleed by, increasing slow decay and disregard

"That marks us deaf and blind and stupid.

"She wrote a book or two, and a prayer, and she marched for love

"and she's marching now, down Victory Street."

(Those we help may love us, and those we love: they change us)

Today the furies came to play: full moon? Uhuh, I thought so.

We saw the morgue - stacked high on every side;

and 'round about ten, when the boss came in, Beryl decided to smack Bob again.

(Beryl was a trucker's wife and Bob - well, Bob was her man.)

Now I don't think she remembers him, but she sure remembers this:

She's on a "fishin' mission": she's looking for that "handsome feller 'wed 'er"

And then "left 'er for 'is truck" - with three kids, a dog, and a cat besides.

Toot tooter! Here comes Beryl, on her bright red scooter.

"Nuuuuurse... NURSE! I can't find my puuuuurse!"

I am struggling to hear you past the echoes in your head:

The memories and the laughter; the sorrows and the dread.

It's easy to hurt the helpless and hard to learn from an echo. But

Those we help may love us, and those we love: they make us.

Some days, when my legs are aching, I yearn to lie down on your bed.

I imagine releasing the brakes on your chair.

I pretend that I can't see you waving. And Beryl yells, "Special delivery!"

And here it is! At last! "She has found you your purse, Peg."

And you give me a smile, and squashed cake (that you hid, in your bag, just for me).

And I widen my eyes to stop myself crying.

Bob rushes to hand me his hankie - "I only used it once," says he.

So Marg'ret chimes in, right on cue, "WHAT ABOUT ME? I need to PEE!"

(Dear God, thank you for giving me these darling people to love,

Yours sincerely, me.)

The Archaeology of Personality

About Trishalishus, PhD, CNS

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