Memory / care - by Courtney Martin - the examined family

An old woman with stringy, gray hair and an ocean blue fleece coat on stands next to her walker and moves her arms as if they are riding waves of inspiration, singing, but not really singing, “My Way,” by Frank Sinatra. Next to her is another woman—this one much younger, fuller in body and full of life, wearing a coral jumpsuit, belting out the lyrics with precision—I’ve loved, I’ve laughed and cried. I’ve had my fill, my share of loving. And now, as tears subside, I find it all so amusing. An old man wanders in wearing a brown wool hat with two sprigs of purple lupine sticking out of it. He smiles at the two women singing Sinatra and starts singing along, pointing at them to boost their confidence. A young man walking through the hallway pulls over and joins; he’s young and svelte, wearing an outfit that makes him look like he’s headed out for a game of pick-up basketball, but really he works here, too, like the woman in the coral jumpsuit. As I was shuffling along the asphalt next to

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• Abu Zar Talib