“And One More Thing I Wanted to Tell You”
David R. Weiss – September 9, 2026

NOTE: This is one in a series of reflections on my visits with Marguerite, age 90, in hospice. You’ll find the others here, here, and here.

“Marguerite,” (I’m at a loss for words, but finally I say) “that means so much to me. Thank you for telling me.” That’s actually the last line of this reflection. It’ll make sense when you get to the end.

Conversations with Marguerite these days are an improvisational exercise in memory. Whatever she remembers—or mis-remembers—I go with. My role is to accompany not to correct.

Two things strike me as we wander through memories together. First, every memory is immediate; any sense of chronology has been eclipsed by sheer presence. Second, emotion leads the way. I’m not sure if that’s because of how present each memory is, or the reverse: perhaps it is the ripples of emotion that orchestrate each memory.

Today, for the umpteenth time, Marguerite discloses to me as somber revelation: “You know, my father is dead now.” Her father was dead for decades before she and I met 8 years ago. But here at the end, his death is once again raw for her. Each visit it is something she is just now feeling.

She follows this disclosure by stating with equal emotion, “I am just worried sick about my mother. I don’t know how she’ll cope.” Her worry is palpable.

This much is fact: her father died first, years before her mother. But both are long dead by now. Still, this much is true: Her love for them, felt as visceral connection, loss, and longing marks these memories as present today, unbothered by chronology.

Moments later, she looks directly at me and asks, “Do you know how old the doctor told me I am?” I don’t know which doctor or when, but I’m game. “How old?” I ask. “Well, he told me I am 100 years old. Can you imagine that?” Honestly, imagine is all I can do with that, because I know for a fact that Marguerite turned 90 last January. But even 90 is worth some earnest surprise, so I share her feeling of astonishment without quibbling about the facts.

Next, her late husband Bill makes a brief appearance—another death still raw and real. He also died before Marguerite and I met, so I don’t follow everything she recalls, but I empathize with the ache.

She tells me about Rebecca, her daughter. (At last, a character in her life that I do know!) With a sweeping gesture she says, “And Rebecca is into everything!” I know Rebecca; this is fact. “I don’t know how she keeps it all together.” Again, I know Rebecca; this is true. We are astonished together.

Then we’re back at the doctor. “Do you know, that doctor told me I weigh 100 pounds?” I don’t know if this is fact or not. I have no idea whether she saw this doctor last week, last month, or only in her dreams. But if she heard 100 pounds (which is, at least, plausible), it might have been the source of those 100 years she exclaimed about earlier. In any case, both times she speaks with wonder, and I meet her there.

When it’s time to go, I take Marguerite’s hands and I tell her, as I do each week, how much her friendship means to me—and that I will carry her in my heart until next week when I come again. And she tells me the same. As I begin to release her hands, she grips tighter and meets my eyes. “And one more thing I wanted to tell you, dear. My parents thought the world of you, too.”

***

David Weiss is a theologian, writer, poet and hymnist, “writing into the whirlwind” of contemporary challenges, joys, and sorrows around climate crisis, sexuality, justice, peace, and family. Reach him at drw59mn@gmail.com. Read more at www.davidrweiss.com where he blogs under the theme, “Full Frontal Faith: Erring on the Edge of Honest.” Support him in Writing into the Whirlwind at www.patreon.com/fullfrontalfaith.