Paper Lantern

A Memorial Day Tribute

This is an essay I wrote in the summer of 2020 in a writing class taught by Thelma at

paper thin

. I’ve never shared it with anyone but family (and Thelma) until now. It seemed an appropriate offering for Memorial Day. This was written about a previous music therapy client who I saw privately until Covid-19 ended our time together. She was an Air Force wife and mother, an avid reader, and a sweet soul. I’m honored to have spent time with her. Thank you for reading.

A thousand paper lanterns fill the sky. A brilliant display of twinkling lights and graceful showmanship. They are magnificent creatures, pirouetting toward the heavens, floating and lifting in a dance. They are music’s soft and subtle strains, whispered sweetly on the evening breeze. Against the inky night, the lanterns take on subtle shadings of rich blues, soft greys, dusky purples, and deep indigo. How they glow - like fireflies alight.

Individually, each is vulnerable and delicate. When caressed, even gingerly, the thin paper yields, leaving the light still shining inside its now crumpled shell. The lantern’s plain shade is made beautiful by the glowing orb that illuminates it. The effect is glorious, despite its simplicity. The light powers its beauty, not the shell, although the shell is what is visible to our bare eye.

She is a paper lantern. Fragile, thin, wilted, apt to tear or crumple at any moment if not handled carefully. Within this weathered shell, however, rests her spirit - her light - not visible but glowing, still. Faded now, sometimes entirely elusive, her memories flit and flicker like burning fireflies in their last days.

She is still beautiful despite dementia’s ravages. Everything once taut now sags - her posture, her skin, her memories, but not her spirit. Her light still shines inside her crinkled shell, an imperishable gift from God that will never fade, no matter her outward appearance. Her faded exterior is a distraction for the casual observer, but I see the light behind her eyes. Just as God has given her His spirit, He has given me the gift of seeing through the outer shell to the brilliance within.

The music brings her back, drawing out her inner light, once flickering, now stronger. I see it in her eyes, the lift of her head. Maybe it’s the faded recollection of dancing with her handsome husband. Maybe it’s the trace of a memory of singing a lullaby to a sleepy-headed child. Maybe deep calls to deep through the lyrics of a well-loved hymn. Music is part of her light, given by God for her eternal enjoyment.

I’ve been her music therapist for almost a year, singing favorite songs and hymns with her, and sharing simple rhythmic instruments for her to hold and play. Sometimes when we’ve finished a song and I smile at her, waiting patiently for a response, she seems to recognize me. I put my hand on her bony shoulder, or brush back the hair from her eye, and from a place of sincere gratitude I say, “Thank you for singing with me.”

Often she giggles softly, like I am a precious child who has just done something sweet and silly, or as if we’re close girlfriends having just shared an intimate secret. Once, during a particularly engaged music therapy session, she put one elegant hand on either of my shoulders and leaned in close, laughing with delight. “That’s wonderful,” she said, beaming, “You are so cute.” We sit smiling together during those moments, gazing into each other's eyes. Am I a daughter to her then? Do I remind her of a trusted friend? Other times there are no words, and that’s okay, too. “Where words fail, music speaks,” Hans Christian Anderson once wrote.

Sitting quietly, she looks up and smiles. Is there a memory there, flickering in the periphery of her tired mind? Has the music created an elegant synapse in her cerebral cortex, bringing her to a place of clarity? Her eyes come alive, twinkling for a moment, and she sighs. No words emerge from her lips, but the glow in her eyes speaks. She remembers. It might not be what we would consider remembering, she doesn’t share a memory or a thought, but something in the cells of her being remember. I can see it. Through her crepe paper skin and her deflated figure, her light still shines. Like a paper lantern.