THINGS STILL DISAPPEAR

       I was away last week, enjoying my family. This week, Mr. A. was away, but that crazy dude was there along with Doug. Crazy didn't bother me. It was a long, long morning at the shelter, with very little to do. Doug planned his potato soup, pre-fab chicken salad and fruit cocktail for lunch. Other than stirring up the soup, there was no preparation involved. We called in the pre-lease 15 minutes early, and the residents 15 minutes ahead of their lunchtime. That group was substantial, and we served nearly 30 plates.
       Boy came to lunch. No smile. No bubbly personality. The place is dragging the child down. Girl stayed in their room, in bed, "not feeling well"—again. Great-grandma was the first in that family to come to lunch, and we spoke. That tiny woman has a very bloodshot left eye—and the condition appears to be chronic.
       When Grandma arrived, I realized Girl was not there and asked after her. Later, I gave Grandma a little package of makeup for Girl. Grandma said, "We don't get no washcloths here." She said she'd bought a pack of washcloths, but they'd been stolen from the family's room. That's when I learned that they are not allowed to lock their rooms unless they leave the building.
       Makes me wonder: How many wash cloths would it take to satisfy the whole population there, such that no one felt the need to steal them? Maybe 100? It's something to think about.
       I gave Boy a new Duncan yo-yo and told him I'll expect to see him rocking the baby and walking the dog next week. He was silent, his face expressionless. Then he sat with his plate and spent a long time tediously unwrapping each little Rolo Caramel. Doug had saved me a whole tub of candies, hidden in the pantry!
       Thankfully, even slow, tiring events come to an end. Maybe next week we'll find our stride again.