Cardiff Care Home
"She works at a Cardiff care home for Somali elders—a thick ebony widow who gives dignity to the dying. When his grandmother is admitted, she becomes essential. Some care transcends the professional."
Sunrise Care Home serves Cardiff's aging Somali community.
Halwo has worked there eleven years—feeding, bathing, comforting people in their final chapter. It's holy work, and she does it with grace.
My grandmother needs care I can't provide.
"Dementia?" Halwo reviews the assessment. Fifty-two years old. Two hundred and forty-five pounds of compassion. Ebony skin, nurse's scrubs, the calm of someone who's befriended death. "We'll take good care of her."
"Mahadsnid."
"Don't thank me yet. Thank me when she smiles."
Ayeeyo smiles within a week.
Halwo's magic—singing old songs, cooking familiar food, treating her like a grandmother, not a patient.
"How do you do this?" I ask.
"I love them." She adjusts Ayeeyo's blanket. "Simple as that. They know when they're loved."
"You're remarkable."
"I'm tired." But she's smiling. "Tired and lucky."
"My husband died here."
We're in the garden. Ayeeyo is napping.
"Not as a patient. As a visitor. Heart attack while we were feeding residents together." She touches a bench. "This is where they found him. Smiling, they said. He died doing what he loved."
"That's beautiful and horrible."
"Haa." She nods. "Eight years since. I've been caring for everyone else's loved ones. Letting mine go slowly."
"You never stop working," I observe.
"Stopping means thinking. Thinking means grieving."
"Grief needs to happen."
"Not when there are people who need me." She looks at Ayeeyo through the window. "Your grandmother needs me. That's enough."
"What about what you need?"
She doesn't answer.
"Come to my flat."
Ayeeyo is stable. The care home covered for the night.
"I want someone to see where I live when I'm not caring for others."
Her flat is cozy.
Warm, filled with photos, the home of someone who loves but is lonely.
"Eight years," she whispers. "Eight years of coming home to memories."
"You deserve more than memories."
"What more is there?"
"New love. New life. New touch."
I worship the caregiver.
In her memory-filled flat. Her body is compassion made flesh—ebony curves, heavy breasts, soft belly.
"Eight years—" She gasps as I undress her. "Caring for everyone—"
"Tonight I care for you."
I lay her on her bed.
Among photos of those she's loved. Her body deserves current love.
I spread her thick thighs.
Give her the care she gives others.
"ILAAHAY!"
She screams—eight years of caregiving finally receiving care. Her hands grip my head.
"Don't stop—" She's shaking. "Dhakhso—"
I nurture her until she's full. Three times.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—fill me with life—"
I strip. She watches with those caring eyes.
"Subhanallah—"
"The best medicine."
I push inside the caregiver.
She cries out.
"So full—" Her legs wrap around me. "Don't stop—"
I give her everything she gives others.
Her massive body shakes. She comes twice more.
"Fill me—" She's crying. "Complete me—"
I release inside her.
We lie among her memories.
"Ayeeyo asked about you today," she whispers.
"What did she say?"
"That one loves you, Halwo. A grandmother knows."
I laugh. "She's right."
"Haa." She kisses me. "She is."
One Year Later
Ayeeyo passed peacefully.
Halwo held her hand. And mine.
"Macaan," she moans now, as I hold her through grief. "My greatest patient."
The caregiver who gives everything.
The woman I'll care for forever.
Love is the cure.