que sera sera

Clara pulls up a chair next to mine, and the circle is complete again. She is a very tall woman, and remains gracious despite her years. When she dances, she opens her arms wide as if to hug the entire room.

Seated now, her fingers work quickly to fix the crumples in her dress. Then they turn in onto themselves, chipping away at each other.

Suddenly, Clara turns to meet my eyes with a precise and concentrated gaze.

Is today Wednesday? she asks.
It’s Thursday.
So tomorrow is Friday?
Yes, tomorrow is Friday.
Well then, says Clara, throwing her head back and laughing wildly, GOOD SHABBES!!, GOOD SHABBES!!

Then she stops laughing, and seems lost in thought for a moment. She turns her wide shoulders back to the others in the circle. Some are asleep, or staring blankly at the air in front of them. Others are following the flying balloons with their eyes. The most able reach for them with their feet and hands.

HEY! Clara booms into the circle over the chorus of Toombalalaika. ARE WE GOING TO THE CASINO TODAY? CAN WE GO TO THE CASINO?

The balloons fall to the ground, and a long bright orange scarf comes out. We all hold on and push it through the air together. Clara loses interest and walks away down the hall.

Leila wakes up and finds an orange scarf in her hands. She searches for an explanation.

This is Tuesday morning Dance Therapy class in the Dementia Unit of Emmy Monash. I am doing some writing for them. This is research.

Every song that plays on the stereo is plucked from our youth, danced to at endless celebrations. Those who can sing along. The others sing too, you can tell, but they do not move.

Clara comes back and wants to dance with the man on my left. He can’t stand, so she holds his hands high and sways before him.

The music changes from Jewish folksongs to old classics. I am somewhat relieved. I did not want to cry.

A new song begins. All of a sudden, from the circle there rises a chorus of voices. First three of four, then six or seven, then, I can't believe it, they are all awake, and singing…

When I was just a little girl
I asked my mother
What will I be?
Will I be pretty?
Will I be rich?
Here's what she said to me:

Que sera, sera.
Whatever will be, will be.
The future's not ours to see.
Que sera, sera.
What will be, will be...

When I grew up and fell in love
I asked my sweetheart
What lies ahead?
Will we have rainbows
Day after day?
Here's what my sweetheart said:

Que sera, sera.
Whatever will be, will be.
The future's not ours to see.
Que sera, sera.
What will be, will be.

My eyes burn. Clara opens her arms wide.