The door swings open on the bleep, procedures, security at the old folks home, they are afraid of intruders, while the inmates watch the door hoping someone will visit, anyone it seems, the comparison, just a lesson, who we let into our lives, and who we decide is good enough, the human race, old bones in the end. He climbs the stairs, it’s a bright spot, those inside are lucky, well cared for, and it smells fresh, none of the odors you get as you get older, yeah, that stuff, ever wonder why in big cities they have those sweet smells, the council does the perfume routine, and pours it into the underground sewers, how sweet, we are all the same in the end, old bones.
The blip, he enters the room, tired face, years gone by, etched with memory, and as the days close out, the regrets too, Solomon is there to add comfort, not that it will be that much, he knows how to raise the Spirit, and when the Spirit rises, old bones are renewed, the wrinkles turn into smiles, and the old bones are no longer old bones, but a friend again.
He listened to the radio story, the inhabitants of the home, the eyes pointed towards the door, they are hoping for a visitor, but they never come, says the nurse in charge. Solomon sighed, we all fade to some degree, we all get old, we all have memory, and then we become undesirable, well, not as useful as before, old in many cases. Did we not realize the wisdom lying in those beds, and what they can teach us. He takes a deep breath, naive perhaps, but you never die when you continue to learn, even when it came to old bones, amen.