Daily Signet

Three mornings a week, Kika’s daughter brought her to the Alzheimer’s Day Program. When she arrived, the feeling in the room changed. Nearly a hundred years old, Kika was a tiny person made of love. Her face was a rosy brown, generously wrinkled—she looked like rich earth which held the sun’s warmth. Her white hair was pulled into a skinny braid that wandered down her back. Her first act, before even taking off her coat, was to go around to each person, reaching up her small hands to illicit us to bend down for her hug. If a new person were there, Kika did not hang back for an introduction—they too were hugged. Murmuring Spanish in her growly little voice, she patted our cheeks and looked into our eyes, loving us quite thoroughly. When all had been tended, she could remove her wraps and sit down for coffee. I began to notice that after morning snack, when people were moving about the room to whatever activities they might join, Kika would always go over to the kitchen sink and, standing on tip-toe, fill her empty cup with water. Setting it down on the counter, she would put her hand in her pocket and take out a small, white pill. This she held in her left hand, and closing her eyes, crossed herself, murmuring a brief blessing. Then she would take the medicine for her blood pressure. This astounded me each time I saw it. I was shamed for my usual attitude of wishing I didn’t have to take pills, or just mindlessly swallowing them down. Now as I stand at my sink, blessing the pills in my hand, I also bless the spirit of dear Kika who has now left this earth, for such a lesson of grace.      

Donna Piper Leichtling