Friendship Center

And Susan just smiled and smiled.

I thought she was another volunteer; short, grinning peacefully, and shaped like a soft diamond with her middle-aged weight settling around the middle. We entered the ceramics room together, encouraging others to join us. The slabs of fresh clay in moist plastic bas shot tingles of excitement and nostalgia down my arms. I’ve always loved art class.

Helen, a regular volunteer, sliced off hunks of clay and we all three eagerly kneaded the grey globs. “Susan was an art major,” said Helen. “In New Mexico, right? Do you remember the name of the school?” she joked.

“New Mexico State,” laughed Susan without missing a beat.

I didn’t see what was so funny, but Helen seemed to possess a flagrant sense of sarcasm and outspokenness. So I gave my best ha ha that’s funny/too bad /surprising/ off color ambiguous laugh and waited.

“Susan has Alzheimer's,” Helen explained matter of factly. “So if you see her wandering around, just point her where she wants to go.”

“Yup. That’s right.” Susan smiled sweetly. “I just smile!” …. “And wear pink,” she added and continued patting out her clay.

My ambiguous laugh had never met a legitimate Alzheimer’s "joke" before.

“An Indian dace!” Susan giggled , stomping her feet and letting out a light-hearted war cry as she slapped her slab into a pancake.

We chatted and discussed the Cala Lily-shaped vase she was attempting. She had been trying since last week to figure out how to craft it. I marveled at her lucidity, especially compared to some of the other guests at the day program for the mentally ill. I wanted Susan to be able to move her vase along, so I tried to show her how we could maybe wrap it around a small plastic cup as a mold. I was thinking that she, the multi-degreed art major, should really be the one showing me.

Somewhere between dipping water out of a cup to rewet the weary clay pancake and introducing another cup as the mold, Susan started to slip away. She dipped her fingers in and out of the empty cup over and over, searching for the water. She turned the cup over and over… still no water. She set the clay pancake in her chair and followed me to the supply cart across the room. I suggested we start over with a bigger pancake. She looked at me blankly.

“Here, add my chunk to yours, and squish them together.” I handed her the two pieces. She smiled and recived them, but looked at the clay and then back at me with puppy dog eyes. Good natured, but waiting for some hint as to why in the world I had bestowed her with this “bit of earth.”

“Just like we did before,” I said enthusiastically, “Like this.” I grabbed a small hunk to knead in demonstration, attempting to act like nothing was wrong as my heart sank for her. I patted a pancake. “See, an Indian dance!” My eyes twinkled (I hoped) as they searched hers.

“What?” she asked innocently.

I met two empty pools of hazel.

And a smile.