Dear Reader,
I am 82 years old now, residing in a modest 12-square-meter room in a nursing home. My life has changed profoundly from the days of bustling family gatherings and the warmth of a full house. While I no longer have a sprawling home or the treasures of the past, I do have the care of kind staff who tend to my needs—cleaning my room, preparing meals, and looking after my health.
Gone are the days of laughter with my grandchildren, of watching them grow, share hugs, and engage in playful squabbles. Some visit me every fortnight, others every few months, and some not at all. Their absence is a heavy silence in my life.
The work of winter baking and tending the garden is a distant memory. Although I still have hobbies and enjoy reading, my eyes tire quickly. The loneliness of my days is a constant companion, but I try to find solace in the small acts of kindness I can offer. I lead group activities and assist those who are in more dire situations than mine. I used to read aloud to a bedridden woman in the room next to mine, and we would sing together. Her recent passing has left a void, a reminder of how fragile and fleeting our connections can be.
They say that life is getting longer, but I wonder why it feels so stretched when the days are filled with solitude. I find comfort in the photographs of my family and the memories I hold dear from my life before this.
I hope that future generations will understand the importance of family and cherish their connections, even as they grow older. I wish for my children to know how much I love them, but please keep this letter private.
With love,
Grandma Maria
