An afernoon visit

My wife had a relative, how the bloodlines come between them I haven't unraveled, but the relationship is there. Aunt Annie was what she was called. We came to knowledge of Aunt Annie after we had been married for 18 years and had moved to Florence, Alabama. Susan, my wife, has cousins there whose ties to Aunt Annie are much stronger.
Aunt Annie lived in a small 2-bedroom house right off of the square, until her advanced age gave her to a retirement home. It was there we met her. Susan had lost all of her grandparents in the years of our marriage, and suffered greatly at the loss. Aunt Annie provided a replacement. We would visit as we could.
For Aunt Annie's birthday I carried my dulcimer to the Home and played. I remember the hallways. Would it be trite to say they smelled of urine and mildew? I still see the old people who sat and stared vacantly. I still hear the ones who talked to people not present, or merely called on Jesus for release.
"Help me! Help me! Jesus, Please help me!" One white-haired lady called out over and over as she pushed her wheel chair with idle motions of her slippered feet. She was strapped into the chair. One eye was filmed over with a cataract; the other was bright, almost feverish. I don't remember its color. The nurses brought Aunt Annie to one of the common areas and made sure she was comfortable. I began to play. Although her eyes couldn't see me, and her hearing was fading she smiled at the old southern hymns and tunes I played. She liked "Come to the Church in the Wild Wood" the best, I played it several times.
The other residents seemed drawn to the music. Even the lady calling to Jesus grew silent and listened. Some tried to sing or merely nodded in time to the music. It was too soon time to go. I felt a connection between the generations.
Because of work demands I didn't play for Aunt Annie again, she recently passed away, after we had moved on to Kansas City. I hope she remembered the music. I often feel guilt over not going back and playing as often as I could for those poor souls trapped in minds and bodies that have betrayed them. Trapped in loneliness, not remembering, or not having visitors as the days draw into months, and then perhaps sadly, years.
I fear growing old, being forgotten, left to become the old man who longs to play the dulcimer with arthritic hands. Perhaps some young person will play for me.