Being Like Mitch Albom

So…what I’ve read of Mitch Albom’s is really down-to-Earth. He uses simple language and writes in the first person. His writing has action, but at the same time it’s deeper, with deliberate thought and honesty. It usually centers around a personal experience that has a universal meaning. Under everything obvious is a bigger story.

I think people think nothing important ever happens in nursing homes. They’re ugly places, where the man who once built his own home can’t remember his name and the woman who used to love to dance can’t get out of bed. They’re the end of the road, and everyone there knows it- the families, the workers, and most importantly, the people who are stuck there. That’s why they’re important- they’re where people give up their last hope.
I realized this when I was eleven. My grandma’s sister lives in a nursing home in Michigan. I don’t know much about her, except that she used to be tough as nails and spent most of her life in Vegas. Her name, ironically, is Hope. I hate going there, but it never seems to bother her- she doesn’t mind that my siblings and I avoid talking to her and spend our time staring at the floor. It’s like a contest for the people who live there, my grandma told me once, to prove how many people still care about them.
After we said goodbye to Hope my family left- a parade of my grandma, mom, brother, and sisters. I was last, and as they all walked out of the building into the parking lot, I stayed, and stared at an aviary that was set up in the lobby. The birds seemed so out of place, with exotic names and bright feathers, and I wonder now what awful luck had brought them there. They were stuck, too, just like the man who had once upon a time built his own house and the ex-dancer.
I looked up, realized my family was out of sight, and turned to leave. I was half way to the door when a woman came up to me. She looked older than what I usually thought of as old, like she had stopped talking a long time ago and was drifting in time. She grabbed my right hand with both of hers, and although she was much smaller than I was, I looked her right in the eyes. They were a vivid blue and rimmed in red, and I watched as they filled with tears.
I should have hugged her, or told her I understood, or I knew, or whatever she needed me to say. But I didn’t. I smiled what I hoped was a warm smile, but it was probably looked rather insincere in reality. We didn’t stand there long. A woman who worked there who I knew walked over to us and separated our hands. She said something soothing to the woman, and led me over to a sink and told me to wash my hands. I felt ashamed, then, but I didn’t understand why.
I didn’t see the old woman again, which I was neither happy nor upset about. I knew I would remember her, though. I walked out of the building, followed by the eyes of some of the residents, and hurried through the parking lot to the people who were waiting for me.