I play a pretty fair guitar.
Fair enough to perform for the residents of the Sarasota Senior Center. One day, a nurse invited me into the Alzheimer’s Lounge. I’d never played for Alzheimer’s patients. Would they recognize old songs like the other residents did?
I started with one of my favorites from the early Depression days, “Buddy, Can You Spare a Dime?” Right away a gentleman in a wheelchair joined in with me, quietly at first, then at full voice. I followed with “St. James Infirmary Blues.” Again, my friend made it a duet. It seemed he knew every word to every song I played. Finally a nurse came to get him for dinner.
I was packing up my guitar when the same nurse tapped me on the shoulder. “Where are you hiding your wings?” she asked.
“Wings?”
“Mr. Johnson has been here for almost three years,” she said. “In all that time no one—not doctors, nurses, anyone—has heard him utter a single word until today.”
Of course, I knew I didn’t have any wings. But as I walked down the white corridor with my guitar case, I had to wonder whether an angel hadn’t been hovering over me and Mr. Johnson, for one special performance.
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