Francis, Forever | Written by Karina Saffi

She sat in her wheelchair, twirling her thumbs. She smiled at me—her white hair stood like a wild field of grass atop her head, untamed and soft. I was fresh out of high school, nervous and awkward, working as an activities coordinator at a senior assisted living home. Francis reminded me of my grandmother—a wild, solid woman who had lived fiercely and loved without apology.

"I'm 95," she said, "born in 1916. My name is Francis. What is yours, my dear?"

We became friends quickly. She told me she was married 3 times, of her time in China, of being a ballroom dancer, of standing out as "the blonde in China" in the 1950s. She laughed as she recalled how strangers would reach out and grab her golden hair, fascinated by its foreign beauty. I imagined it then—her hair, not as the wisps of white it had become, but a golden field of wheat swaying in the wind.

Every day, I set up the bingo game, and every day, Francis rolled in, taking her usual spot, grabbing her cards and chips. She never had a penny to her name, even though the game required ten cents to play. The other ladies whispered, "Oh great, here’s Francis. She never pays." But I let her play anyway. She’d fall asleep halfway through, arms crossed, head tilting to one side.

Francis, you made me love you simply by being you. Not bitter. Not angry. Just existing. You didn’t own much—just a few photo albums, a handful of clothes. Makes you wonder about the conditions of these places, how little is left in the end. But your greatest possession was your spunk, your stories, your unwavering spirit.

I was intimidated by some of the older ladies, the ones worn down by life, bitter and sharp-edged. But you softened the space around me. I looked forward to our talks. I imagined you, Francis—wild and free, twirling in a ballroom bathed in golden light, the metallic scent of the sun in your hair, the hum of the world buzzing around you- you, in a red sequence ballroom gown. You were a maraschino cherry in a fuzzy Shirley Temple. You were inappropriate to the standards of society, delightfully so.

We had a secret language. A shared understanding. "Love fiercely," you told me. And so we laughed, and we talked, and we gossiped, and I pushed your wheelchair fast through the parking lot, the wind tangling in what was left of that once golden hair. You raised your hand whenever I ran too fast, which was not often because you liked feeling free again.

One day, I was late to work. I set up for morning exercises, searching the room out of habit. I knew you wouldn’t be there. You never were, you hated working out. I got ready for bingo with the ladies. I placed your card on the table- a sharp and croaky voice cut through the air— "She won’t be joining anymore."

Francis. I will never forget you.