I found myself sitting next to Ernest in an old folks home this week. I was specifically and intentionally chatting him up, nearly flirting. Because my kids were there for the monthly Teen Volunteer Community Homeschool Service Project and busy playing Bingo with the residents. I figured all I could give of myself in the moment was attention. I moved across the lobby to sit next to Ernest. For awhile we were alone except one completely vacant looking woman in a corner who didn't move a muscle, as far as I could tell, for two solid hours.

Ernest is maybe in his 70s? But its hard to guess because he's black. Sorry if its somehow inappropriate to say, but I can never guess the age of anyone black who is over 25. All elderly black people look about 50 to me, which is to say, unfairly ageless. So I'm sitting with Ernest, listening through his immensely soft polite demeanor, accent, and the effects of what I assume was a stroke. I learned he is from the same southern state as me. He was a crane operator by trade, swore its "perfectly safe." He inquired about my husband's work.

He was curious about homeschool, about my children, and probably about why I was sitting there. I explained: homeschool is wonderful. We have a lot of fun. Its not hard at all. The kids are smarter than I am. And we have a lot of time together. Which I value because time is all we really have in life, anyway. I turned to face Ernest. He burst into tears. He sat there sobbing and apologizing and agreeing with me, emphatically, for several minutes. It took all my strength not to cry as well. I changed the subject, asked if he is a father. He has two kids, both living in other cities.

His mother's name was Savannah. He burst into tears when he mentioned her name. I can't imagine the truth of her life, circa 1910, in the deep south. Nor the tenderness and concern she must have shown him and felt for him. Raising a black boy in the deep south back them. Dear Holy God, how scary was that? He misses her profoundly.

There were a lot of historical, cultural, generational, and gendered forces at play in my conversation with Ernest. I feel sure he cried so easily because he's had a stroke. I've heard strokes will often free your emotions that way. Ernest was true to his name, heartbreakingly so. But he was completely lucid. If he couldn't hold his tears, each one was absolutely sane and sound. I hate to think of him left there, anyone left in such a place. Yet I know, such places are necessary.

Volunteens playing Bingo in the locked ward.