It was lunchtime at my father's care facility. The lunch actually looked good--a rarity. It was baked chicken, roasted potatoes, and carrots. I almost wished I hadn't eaten before I'd come. Almost.
My dad was sitting with his two friends: Fred and Elizabeth. I say friends, but their relationship was carefully curated by the care facility itself. My dad, Fred, and Elizabeth didn't decide on their own where to sit, seats were assigned. Eventually, these consistently assigned seats formed a relationship between the three.
I joined the three of them in my mask for COVID is still very present no matter how much we ignore it. Elizabeth told me I could take it off, but I knew I had to keep it on--despite the fact that the staff was either wearing their masks incorrectly or not wearing them at all.
I asked how Elizabeth was, she told me to ask my dad, he told me to ask Fred, and Fred said they were fine and it was nice to see me.
"I don't know how she got my finger in her mouth," I hear from across the room. It's the woman serving food (maskless).
"Help me," a weak and wobbly voice says from another part of the room.
I glance over to a quiet table to find a woman in bright pink staring at me, mostly out of curiosity--or so I think.
I turn my eyes back to the table and notice that my dad is calmly eating with his fork and knife--well not the carrots, but eating the baked chicken and roasted potatoes. He does have a good appetite. That's good, I tell myself.
Fred is eating more slowly, but definitely eating all items on his plate.
Elizabeth, however, is slowly peeling the skin off the baked chicken and roasted potatoes.
That's the best part, I want to say, but don't see a point.
"So then we were wrestling on the floor, my finger still in her mouth," says maskless to another employee.
"Help me. What day is it?" asks the weak and wobbly resident again. This time I spot which one she is. She's the woman in a wheelchair who requested a tuna salad sandwich instead of the baked chicken, roasted potatoes, and carrots.
"It's Sunday, all day," replies a terse resident who sits at a table by herself. I gather tuna salad sandwich has asked for the day before.
Elizabeth has now removed enough of the skin from the chicken to begin to rend the flesh from the bone with her bare hands.
My dad asks what I've been up to. I give my usual short answer of "Working, hanging out with friends, taking care of my dog."
He, as usual, asks my dog's name, saying he didn't remember I had a dog. I share it and again catch bright pink staring at me.
Somewhere beyond the dining room, a dog yaps. I'm startled because there shouldn't be a dog here.
My dad shares his sentiments on the matter--they align with mine.
"Help me," repeats tuna salad sandwich.
"I didn't even want to make her that sandwich,'" says maskless. "You know she won't eat it."
"What day is it?" tuna salad sandwich asks again.
"It's still Sunday," grumbles terse.
Elizabeth continues to remove the skin and eat the innards.
My dad quietly eats his lunch, occasionally asking me again, "What have you been up to?"
"Working, hanging out with friends, taking care of my dog."
Bright pink looks at me again.
"Help me."
"I told you she wouldn't eat it."
"What day is it?"
"Sunday!"
The dog yaps.
Elizabeth removes more skin and begins muttering to herself. "I'm going to put all of my stuff here because my mother says so."
"What have you been up to?"
"Working, hanging out with friends, taking care of my dog."
Bright pink stares.
"Help."
"I shouldn't have made that sandwich."
"What day is it?"
The dog yaps echo.
"Sunday!"
Everyone finishes up what they're going to finish up. Elizabeth leaves all the skins and bones on her plate. My dad leaves his carrots.
The employees clear the remnants.
(Prompt by me)
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