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Discry |
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Wendy Flora Member
since 2000-01-11
Posts 182Virginia |
My feeble attempts at prose #2. ==================================================== It has been many years since I have seen the sun. I was always in a hurry, walking with my eyes kept on my shoes and the path they followed so that I would not stumble. I spent so many years watching my feet that if you had asked me what color the sky was, I could not have told you. My brown Oxfords became my whole world.... the ridges of the stitches were the equivalent of the Andes mountains for me, and the spaces between were rows upon rows of Grand Canyons. The smooth toes were the Great Plains of my existence. It's amazing now how much a microcosm my world was. Shoes and pavement, sometimes a blur of green for grass. Always what I saw . . . The alarm clock began its persistent blaring honk as Martin blindly rolled out of bed, slamming the top of the clock repeatedly until his palm finally found the snooze button. He shook his head, letting his thick mop of dark hair fall over his still closed eyes. His hands tried in vain to massage some life back into his sleeping face. He rose to make his memorized way to the bathroom, eyes still shut against the sun that came streaming through the tilted blinds. He didn't even bother to turn on the light, but felt his way to the toilet, lid always kept in the upright position. As he emptied himself, his head slumped to his chest with the comfortable release and his still only half-conscious state. Not bothering to tuck himself back into his white-and-blue striped boxers, he stumbled to the sink to splash the cold water upon his face, feeling his way to the hand towel. He shuffled out of the bathroom to the floor at the foot of his bed where the clothes he had worn the day before lay in a rumpled heap. As he was wrestling to pull on his faded jeans, he noticed himself hanging out of his underwear and hastily put everything in order before zipping up his jeans. He yanked on his stained white T-shirt, not bothering to notice that it was backwards, and pushed his feet into his dirty Nikes. He stuffed his wallet and comb into his back pocket and snatched up his keys and book-bag without so much as a glance to the feminine form still curled up in his dorm bed. . . . never what I felt. I look at the sky more than anything now. I force my arthritis-enslaved hands to draw the shapes I see in the clouds. I try in vain to capture the magnificent hues with the inferior watercolors they give me. I've asked repeatedly for oils, or even the less expensive acrylic, but all they give me are the Crayola paint sets meant for children. I have often heard this time called the second childhood, but to me this is poorly named, for it is not so much how I behave as how I am treated. I have heard that in some cultures the elderly are revered for their wisdom, but here when I try to talk, all I get are absent-minded comments or shushes. If only they would listen to what I have to say . . . Martin tapped his thumb impatiently on the steering wheel of his car as he waited for the bell to ring that would release the children into the bright autumn afternoon. He brought his wrist around to glance at his watch and was annoyed to find it almost an entire minute since he'd last checked it. He reached for the half-burned cigarette perched precariously on the edge of the ashtray and inhaled deeply to calm his nerves. He knew he should roll his window down for the escaping smoke, but his only movement was the incessant bouncing of his knee and occasional tapping of his thumb on the wheel. The bell rang precisely at 3:02 and 20 seconds, and he made a note to himself to buy another pack of cigarettes after dropping his daughter off at dance class. He tamped out the butt in the ashtray and slammed it closed, simultaneously pushing the button to roll down the car window. He caught sight of a blur of pink next to the car and started the engine as Julie got inside. "Hi daddy!" she chirped. "Hi sweetie, how was school today?" he responded automatically. Julie chattered on about her joys at the discovery of fingerpainting, but Martin wasn't paying any attention. He tossed "Really honey?"s and "That's great sweetie"s in when she stopped to take a breath, but if his life had depended upon taking a multiple choice test over what his five-year-old daughter had said to him that day, he would have been a dead man. . . . I would tell them what I've learned, what I wish someone had told to me when I was young and stupid and oblivious, just like these who are in charge of us here at the home. But they don't listen, and so I sit out here in the courtyard on the nice days, when they will let me, and I look up at the sky, at the birds, the tops of trees. I usually don't even notice the nurse who comes to take me back inside for lunch or crafts or whatever inane nonsense they feel is important enough to interrupt my solitude. They're always sorry. "I'm sorry, Mr. Hunt, but it's time to come in for lunch now. . . for your medicine. . . it's getting dark, better come in. . ." I look at them then, full in the face, but they don't see me . . . "Honey, I'd really like it if you'd stay in with me today. It looks stormy out and I'd hate for you to be caught out in it. You know, since the kids are grown, there's plenty of solitude here in the house. You don't need to go down to the river for it. And the fish will be there another day . . ." There were two lures in his tackle box that would have to be repaired, Martin mused, the green fly and the brown spinner. Maybe he'd do that tonight. He adjusted the brim of his Gilligan's cap and gave his vest a final yank before picking up his tackle box and heading for the door. "Helen, I'll be back before dark as always. Don't keep supper if I'm late . . ." And he was gone as usual, and Helen went back to the stack of dishes she had let accumulate over the past couple of days, a much smaller pile than had been there just 4 years earlier. Now that the last of her children had been married, she found herself even more alone than her marriage to Martin had made her accustomed to. Her eyes traveled to the brown manilla envelope at the end of the counter. The return address said Mercy Regional Hospital, and she had hoped today Martin might have stayed so she could tell him the diagnosis of her terminal cancer. Maybe tomorrow . . . . . . at all. They look everywhere but at me, just as I used to do. They shut themselves up behind their walls and no one reaches them, touches them. They feel nothing. I know what it is to feel nothing. I spent most of my life making it into an art form. It wasn't until I came here that I was finally forced to sit and wonder at my loneliness. This place is worse than any prison, for in prison there is at least some hope of getting out, if not parole then always the possibility of escape. Here, there is only death, and that thought brings many a man to judge himself and his life. I was found wanting. There is nothing I can do for it now, except to try and tell people what I know to be true, what I had to learn the hard way . . . that people are the most important thing in the world. That everything that is worthy and good can be found inside another human being. I spent so much of my life looking everywhere else. And now it just kills me to sit here and watch the nurses and orderlies move in and out of my room and so many other rooms without even looking at who is in them. They are so like me. I moved in and out of each room in my life, and didn't even bother to stop and notice the people in them . . . or even if there was anyone in them . . . And now I find myself alone in my room with no one in it but me. My children are too busy being the same fool I was to visit, and my wife died 15 years ago when I was still too oblivious to notice. I miss her now, even though I barely knew her. I miss the fact that I was a stranger to my wife, and that I let her be a stranger to me. We slept in the same room for almost 30 years, and we were strangers to each other. No man and wife should live like that. I just remember that when I looked at people, I saw a reflection of myself in their eyes, and was content with what I saw. I wish I had taken the time to look deeper, to see to the bottom of the pools of their eyes to find what pearls lay there. I sit here on this park bench and I feel a great emptiness inside for what I have missed . . . "Mr. Hunt, I'm sorry, but it's time to come in now. They're serving chicken fried steak with gravy for dinner and I'm sure you wouldn't want to miss that . . ." Martin looked down from the puffy, bird-shaped cloud he had been sketching to the woman who came pushing the wheelchair. She was a tired-looking woman in her late 30s, with light brown hair tucked up into a bun at the nape of her neck and streaks of gray forming at her temples and forehead. Her murky brown eyes rested on nothing, but looked right through Martin as he stared within them. "All right, Marjorie. I guess I'll come in with you." . . . and what I should have felt. I think it first hit me the day I overheard Mr. Gray talking to Mrs. Oppenheim about their oldest children's first word. It hit me as I stared into my mashed potatoes that I couldn't remember what Julie's first word was. Or Tony's. Or Allison's. A first word is an important thing, a monumental step over the threshold to the Gates of Life and I had somehow missed not just one of my children's but all three. I lay in my bed that night shaking and sobbing for hours. It occurred to me as I lay there that I had no visions of my children's first steps, or the way my wife looked on our wedding day, or any of my kid's faces the day they graduated from high school, or college . . . I started the very next day to make restitution for my grievous sin, but it is too late for me. No one listens. I am considered senile, when I am considered at all. I saw a movie once that was about convicts in a prison, and it had a quote in it I sure liked a lot. It said, 'You can either get busy living, or get busy dying.' I only wish I'd spent the first half of my life living, and the last half dying. It doesn't work well the other way around. So I'll say to you, make sure you live first. Dying will come of it's own accord later. Martin was wheeled to his room after dinner where he thanked Marjorie and watched sadly as she absently muttered her "You're welcome"s and "Goodnight"s. Martin closed the door and turned to his dresser where he took out his white-and-blue striped pajamas and comb. He changed quickly, before the chill of the room had the chance to overcome him, and shuffled slowly to the tiny closet bathroom. His head leaned back to gaze heavenward as he relieved himself, and splashed warm water on his face and brushed his teeth. He combed his hair - what little was left of it - and shuffled out of the bathroom. He made sure the alarm was set to the radio - an oldies station he had taken to listening to in the past few years because he liked waking up to the sound of voices, he said - before turning the lamp out and swinging his legs up into bed. He turned his head to face the bare window (all shades and curtains having been removed at his request) The last vision he ever had was of the face of the man in the moon. "Even in the glasses of thine eyes I see thy grieved heart." -Shakespeare's King Richard II |
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Skyfyre Senior Member
since 1999-08-15
Posts 1906Sitting in Michael's Lap |
Oops -- this is #2? I'll try to read them in order -- I'll be back!  --Kess Full fathom five thy father lies, Of his bones are coral made, Those are pearls that were his eyes; Nothing of him that doth fade But doth suffer a sea-change Into something rich and strange... --William Shakespeare, from The Tempest |
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Skyfyre Senior Member
since 1999-08-15
Posts 1906Sitting in Michael's Lap |
Good Lord! If this is "feeble," I would hate to see what you call excellent! The plot was well-developed. The character was both believable and genuine. The flashbacks were artfully done, and the distinct personalities of the two faces of the man came across very well. This struck a personal chord with me. I have worked in nursing homes, and even with Alzheimer's patients -- I tried not to be the oblivious caretaker that you described here, but I'll admit I wasn't always successful. It is hard not to become caught up in your own life even though the whole world is swirling about you. The times that I did sit down and listen to these folks -- well, let's just say that everyone has a tale, and sometimes you would be amazed at just what you hear. Excellent work -- feeble? I think not! --Kess Full fathom five thy father lies, Of his bones are coral made, Those are pearls that were his eyes; Nothing of him that doth fade But doth suffer a sea-change Into something rich and strange... --William Shakespeare, from The Tempest |
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Wendy Flora Member
since 2000-01-11
Posts 182Virginia |
No, #2 just means the second prose I posted... the two are completely unrelated. I'm sorry for the confusion. Thanks Kess! That means a lot to me. -wen |
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Dusk Treader
Moderator
Senior Member
since 1999-06-18
Posts 1187St. Paul, MN |
What an excellent tale you've woven here! It took me a while to figure out both view points were Martin's, but that discovery made the piece that much better. You have great talent, I enjoyed this piece and your first one greatly, Keep writing! In flames I shall not be consumed, but reborn. -- Abrahm Simons |
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Christopher
Moderator
Member Rara Avis
since 1999-08-02
Posts 8296Purgatorial Incarceration |
Awesome! (And good job on paragraphing too!) |
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