A visit in the old people’s home

It was a lazy day in the Geriatric Ward of the old people’s home where I was visiting my mother. It was hot in there, as usual, and I immediately took of my cardigan when I entered. I always go in summer clothes there.

She didn’t speak much that day and dozed off a lot. The April sun was shining in the face of the 103 year old Mister De G. who was sitting beside her.

“Shall I draw the curtains?” I asked.

He said nothing. I wondered where his thoughts might have gone to. To his childhood, on the eastern part of the island? He used to have goats. Or his father had goats. Lots of goats, apparently. He hates goats, that we all know from his family. If you have to take care of them from the moment you can walk, one day you get enough of them, I suppose.

He still drinks goat milk in his coffee. And he is very fond of coffee; if it is up to him, he would drink it all day. Perhaps coffee with goat milk is the secret to a long life.

He looked at me. He has a beautiful face, like granite or a sculpture out of wood. Strong, impressive. Severe but with a cynical smile on his lips. I didn’t want to stare, but I couldn’t help taking glimpses at him.

His eyes closed, he dozed off a few minutes, like my mother, but then he awoke and shouted for his coffee. He has a loud voice and my mother woke up too, looked at him and gave me the eye. Him again. Shouting again. Silly man.

“So what are you thinking about,  Mister De G.?” I asked. I leaned a bit towards him, because he was quite deaf.

“Ja!” he shouted. I was surprised, he never answered before. Interested I waited. What would he tell me? What would he share about the findings in his memory? The unrevealed beauty of wisdom, the hidden treasures… He had seen so much in life!

“Ja?” I repeated eagerly.

“Tits!” he said. He nodded. He remembered. And then he added: “Coffee!”

I got him his cup. With goat milk. Good stuff.