INDEPENDENT LIVING
ALM No.91, July 2026
ESSAYS
It’s called independent living for the elderly, but it feels more like storage. The elderly wait in small units behind doors for time to finish its work, their minds cluttered with stories untold for years, tales of wars won, loves lost, and children grown. The hallways are quiet except for the occasional soft hum of an elevator, the purr of an electric wheelchair, or the whisk of a roller-walker. It’s a stillness that doesn’t comfort. It suspends.
The staff is pleasant enough, trained in small courtesies. They smile the way movers smile, polite, practiced, already looking past shoulders. They always greet in passing, and sometimes, they stop to exchange pleasantries, their voices dipped in gentle tones, soft and hollow, a language of caretaking without care. And their kindness feels rehearsed, a measured civility that leaves no mark of real affection.
Meals arrive like obligations, predictable in their mediocrity. Broccoli is served often, too often. Like the other vegetables, it is pale and overcooked, resigned to its fate. The meat lacks flavor, and the cheese lacks texture. It is food by necessity, cooked without conviction and served in the way janitors sweep corners, pushing it into tidy piles.
The building itself tells the truth more honestly than the brochures. The hall carpets carry stains that resist both cleaning and shame. Around the elevator doors, the paint has been chipped away by years of not only moving trash bins and furniture in and out but elderly people too, eventually.
And yet, something is always going on, a happy hour, a painting class, a Bible study class, a musical event, a movie, a card game or dominos, a holiday celebration, or a dance with dress-up and corsages for the ladies. The activity board is full. It fills the air where good food might have been. It is distraction from the feeling of being shelved like inventory and kept tidy until paperwork is signed and vacated storage space is made ready for the next arrival.
Frank Zahn writes nonfiction, fiction, and poetry about people navigating loss, memory, injustice, work, aging, and the quiet reckonings that arrive when life refuses to simplify itself. His publications include nonfiction books, articles, commentaries, book reviews, and essays; novels; short stories; and poetry. Currently, he writes and enjoys life at his home among the evergreens in Vancouver, Washington, USA. For details, visit his website, www.frankzahn.com.
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