This Old Man by Lois Ruby Read Free Book Online

going to be friends, I could tell.
    Wing said, “This is the month of the Dragon Boat Festival in old China, to remember Ch’u Yuan. He left a lot of poems, which Old Man has memorized. He’ll be reciting them after dinner all this month.”
    â€œOh, Wing, what a total bore,” I said sympathetically.
    â€œIt is,” Wing nodded. “But Old Man looks so lively when he recites. And his mind is so sharp. He remembers every word he learned seventy-five years ago. You know, when he gives me these poems after dinner, I let myself believe he’s going to live forever.”
    Once we were out on Jackson Street, I threw an arm in each direction, to stop Wing and Pammy in their tracks.
    â€œBe careful of the baby,” Pammy said irritably.
    â€œI’m having one of my horribly clever ideas.”
    Wing snickered, prepared for the worst. Tourists passed us, smiling at my proclamation and modesty.
    â€œThe thing is, I’d give anything to drop in and see Old Man for just a minute.” I felt Wing stiffen slightly beside me. “I know that’s impossible, at least until he gets much stronger.” I watched Wing out of the corner of my eye. Would he ever let me in, even if Old Man were well? “Naturally, I don’t want Old Man to think I’m just an orderly out there, or some stranger lurking in the halls. I want him to know that it’s Greta Janssen out there for him. Does he ask about me, Wing?”
    â€œWell …”
    â€œMy point exactly. I’m anonymous. My idea is positively dazzling in brilliance. Tonight I will go to the library, and I will find a real, genuine, authentic, actual Chinese poem.”
    â€œWhat are you going to do with it when you find it?” asked Pammy. She hadn’t caught on to my brilliance yet.
    â€œI will write it down on a piece of onion-skin paper, and Wing’ll give it to him, and tell him it’s from me, the girl in the hall.”
    Wing nodded. “He does love poetry. It’s a good idea.”
    â€œDo I have to come to the library with you?” asked Pammy.
    â€œWhy not? It’s a good way to read some more of those terrific articles that tell you how to have babies at home. See you, Wing. We’ve got to go.”
    I wanted to dig right into the Chinese literature books and find the oldest, most boring poem I could get, for Old Man’s pleasure.

5
    We were at the library until it closed, Pammy drumming her nails on the oak table and me searching for just the right poem. It would take a special one, I knew, because Old Man not only read poems, but wrote them as well. I’d seen the brushes he once used, and the rich, cream ivory parchment he drew his poems on. We’d brought these things to the hospital for him, and Wing said he kept them on his bedside table. But he didn’t use them anymore. Since his stroke, he had made the poems up in his head and saw them laid out, up and down, right to left, on a page in his mind.
    I didn’t have calligraphy brushes, and even if I’d had them, I wouldn’t know how to use them. And I didn’t have parchment. So I typed the poem on the best thing I could find in Elizabeth’s supply cabinet, which was erasable bond. I typed it fourteen times before I had it perfectly spaced in the middle of the page, with no errors. It had to be just right. I had a feeling Old Man hungered for perfection. I carried it between two blank pieces of paper, inside a manila folder, with the folder inside my binder. I took it out to read in history, holding it by the corner so it wouldn’t wrinkle or smudge. At the hospital that day I handed it over to Wing.
    â€œPlease give this to Old Man. Tell him it’s from Greta.”
    â€œFrom Greta,” he repeated, in a faraway voice.
    â€œOh, I see. Then tell him it’s from Fragrant Blossom.”
    â€œYes, that would be better.” Brimming with confidence, I watched Wing read the