Memory Wall

Rounding the corner of my extremely annoying hedge, I ran right into an older bearded man who lives down the block. I don’t know his name, but I know him by his dog. When the dog first arrived, he was a tiny puppy, only 8 weeks, no identifiable breed but a striking tobacco brown coat with white socks and paws and blue eyes. His owner told me he had brought him up from the south. It was clear early on that he was going to be a big dog- his white paws were way out of proportion to his tiny body. Since then whenever I run into them, he is bigger and bigger and now he is the size of a lab but his fur is longer. He knows me so as soon as he saw me, he reared up and put his paws on me and started licking my hands. Then he started sniffing me. “Do you smell the cats?” I asked him. “Does he like cats?” I ask his owner. “Not particularly, he’s just a people person.” I am still laughing to myself about this description after I wish them a good day and continue on. I passed the corner and suddenly remembered I had forgotten to put the can in my pocket in the free food box. Turning back, I saw an older man with a shopping bag in front of the box. I thought he was putting things in so I approached the box. If I had known he was taking things I would have hung back so as not to embarrass him. I didn’t want to startle him so I said, “I forgot to put this here,” as I set it down. In response, he pulled a container of instant mac n cheese-which he had clearly just taken-out of his bag and offered it to me. “This is for you,” he said and I could hear the hesitating cadence of someone born with a developmental disability. “We share,” he told me. “ I’m ok,” I said “I have to get to work.” “I’m retired” he said. “That must be nice,” I replied. “It is! But if I was younger I would still work.” I could tell this conversation might go on and on and I really need my two hours before people come in and start interrupting me to catch up on some reports and paperwork. “I’m going to be late for work,” I told him. “Don’t be late for work!” he said, cheerily waving goodbye. In my office - in the rare quiet - the first task is to update our Memory Wall. The wall has photos of clients who have passed away, 36 of them, and some artwork by a client who died of AIDS. I was thinking of him recently because his mother sent a donation for the 10th anniversary of his death. But now I have another client to think about. Yesterday I found out from his best friend that Michael R died. I hadn’t seen Michael recently – he was living in DC, and he was never good at keeping a phone so he didn’t stay in touch. His friend was too upset to tell me the details, but he was one of the most alcoholic clients I have ever worked with. He drank from morning to night, all day every day and a body can only take so much. While I was at it, I also put up the pictures of the last two clients who died. I. was a bi cis woman, a grungy east village heroin using sex worker with radical politics and a kind heart. Every time she came in, it was with another story of violence – beating, rapes, all kinds of abuse. But she was a survivor, until she wasn’t. The other one, B. , showed up at Sylvia’s Place 20 years ago from Florida in the form of a gay boy, which quickly fell away to reveal the woman inside. B. was dramatic in her make up, her relationships, and her stories. She got into mental health housing, but the drama continued. She kept falling in and out of love with men whose issues mirrored her own, slit her wrists when they broke up or took small overdoses of her meds. But slowly her life got more and more consumed by drugs, and her lies and obvious attempts at manipulation left her isolated. In the end, the drugs took her. I used to put up the pictures right away, but in the darkness of this winter, the deaths of I. and B. was too much to sit with for long. Putting up the pictures is a process. First, I have to find one where the client’s personality shines through. Then I resize it to fit our frames – the frames each hold multiple photos. The rest requires space, so I carry it all into the church library and spread it out on the big table. I cut out the pictures, undo the fasteners and lift the back off the frame. Then I use a glue stick to anchor the photo in place and reassemble the frame - glass, then photos, then the back. The final step is to hang it on the wall. We were low on space, so I got on the stepstool and rearranged the frames to make a place for the new one. The new one holds five pictures, and I put in three so there are two eerie empty spaces that seem to be saying, “who will be next?”