A Minute, A Lifetime

The puzzle was one Lolly couldn’t quite grasp, though it seemed familiar. The colors. The angles. She told her hand to move but it didn’t, couldn’t, and so she stared at it, turned it over and over in her palm like that was enough. Lolly didn’t want her granddaughter to see how much it unnerved her, to be unable to place this shape that was clearly so important. Her granddaughter sat on the edge of the armchair, close enough to reach, if only Lolly’s arms would move.

The way the girl’s face shone when she passed the puzzle to Lolly at the beginning of the visit showed how much it meant to her. Lolly initially thought it was something her granddaughter had made herself due to the pride in her eyes, but as soon as her fingers slid over the hard plastic sides, she knew what it was. Or, rather, knew she should.

Lolly breathed through her frustration the way the yoga instructor taught them, every Tuesday and Thursday at ten. Most residents here couldn’t actually do the poses, so the center billed it as chair yoga, but Lolly didn’t care about that. She appreciated how the deep breaths made her feel. She felt like she was bringing youth back into her body with each inhale, blowing the cobwebs from her brain with each exhale.

“Oh Lolly!” Her granddaughter jumped out of her chair. “I knew it would help!” Lolly followed the girl’s gaze to the shape in her hand, now solid sides of yellow, blue, and green. The girl wrapped her arms around Lolly’s neck. “I knew you remembered.”