THE WAIT
I've been lying in this bed for weeks. Whispering sometimes inches in thru the old transom. Voices change from day to day. When my door begins to open even a tiny crack, I smile inwardly and just guess who is about to come in. 'Is that you, Millie?', I ask. I'm not sure what the day is, as they are all pretty much the same, but I do know it is not Saturday because Millie goes to the Rialto every Saturday, even if she's seen the film half a dozen times. She's a bit tetched in the head but I still love her.
When my baby sister, Carrol, softly opens my door, I can smell the Lifebouy soap she still somehow locates in specialty shops. Because she has such vivid memories of our father using it in his office, she knows it has to be good. Recently the odor is not as apparent as 100% Ivory took over and now she's on a Camay kick. These thoughts are nonsense but better than being comatose–or are they?
The highlight of my boring week is when Dr. Solomon, about half my age, visits. I used to hope he'd make a pass at me, but even seeing me naked, never tempted him. His visits now consist of checking my pulse, listening to my heart beat, chatting and having me sign a slip so I can keep a record of Medicare charges. Once in a long while, he helps me out of bed, leads me to the bathroom, never peeps while I take a shower, has a big towel and my robe ready when he hears me turn off the water. It's the closest to heaven I have come so far.
My crewel work, my afghan needle are out of my reach. Just yesterday Carrol put them someplace where they wouldn't stare at me. Was she being nice, kind, or is she going to take art needle work someday? Do I care? Not too much. There is a draft coming in from a new place. Millie's clopping shoes startle me as they come up the stairs. The little draft has grown into a wind. Somebody has left the door open. I call out in a voice I can barely hear myself, 'Millie, you must not have locked the door. It's open. I'm cold. Please bring me another blanket. Her clopping shoes descend. It takes her a long time to come back but eventually she does and lays my favorite heavy chenille robe across my legs. It's still soft and just full of memories. 'Why don't you take off those noisy shoes of yours?' I ask. Like a child, she sticks her tongue out of me and clops downstairs and back up carrying my dinner tray. The warmth of the homemade vegetable soup brightens the room. A few Uneeda biscuits with grape jam wait for me to slurp my soup while Millie holds a paper towel under my chin. I can't control the tickle in my throat and cough. The soup spills over. I am sorry. She is angry, calls me a klutz, a pain in the rear. Lowering my standards, I apologize.
My crewel work, my afghan needle are out of my reach. Just yesterday Carrol put them someplace where they wouldn't stare at me. Was she being nice, kind, or is she going to take art needle work someday? Do I care? Not too much. There is a draft coming in from a new place. Millie's clopping shoes startle me as they come up the stairs. The little draft has grown into a wind. Somebody has left the door open. I call out in a voice I can barely hear myself, 'Millie, you must not have locked the door. It's open. I'm cold. Please bring me another blanket. Her clopping shoes descend. It takes her a long time to come back but eventually she does and lays my favorite heavy chenille robe across my legs. It's still soft and just full of memories. 'Why don't you take off those noisy shoes of yours?' I ask. Like a child, she sticks her tongue out of me and clops downstairs and back up carrying my dinner tray. The warmth of the homemade vegetable soup brightens the room. A few Uneeda biscuits with grape jam wait for me to slurp my soup while Millie holds a paper towel under my chin. I can't control the tickle in my throat and cough. The soup spills over. I am sorry. She is angry, calls me a klutz, a pain in the rear. Lowering my standards, I apologize.
Time crawls. I am ready, as ready as I will ever be. Leaning against the wall I see Willard holding a jar of Schmucker's Grape Jelly. He announces clearly the name of each person who has reached 100 years of age, 102, 105. 'Isn't she lovely?' ' This is Mr. Saloman. 103 and his wife of 83 years, still dancing at 102.' I stare at the T.V. I think the old farts are wrinkled and ugly.
A new and welcome feeling comes over me. I am ready. My eyes droop. My heart makes another jump as I whisper, 'Goodbye.'
0 comments:
Post a Comment