The Old-People's-Home
Staring out the window of the fourth floor.
Orchids, petunias on my windowsill, a wooden clock, paintings of the Alps, where I traveled in Switzerland. Pictures of my sons, with their daughters, framed next to my George, my great love. He’s with the Lord now, he’s in a better place, although I have no one left to wipe the tears of my face. I’ve been alone for the last eleven years, I’ve been in the old-people’s-home for seven.
My food gets cooked, my clothes get washed, I get washed. I most often sit in my lazy chair, or lay in bed, though sometimes they take me for walks. There seem to be two things that I am in control of nowadays, the remote control and when I go to the bathroom, though this latter act of will too has been failing me lately.
I try to spend most of my time trying to remember all the wonders I once experienced. The mountain ranges I beheld in my youth, the lovely smiles I was given ever since I was a small child, all the things that made my life worthwhile. Now and then days are filled with sorrow, on those days I wish to see no new tomorrow.
Some days I see my boys and their little ladies, but they live too far. They are living their lives, as George and I once did. I do call Patrick and Samuel every day, just for a little while, I do not want to bother them. I can’t help it though, otherwise life will be too bland and monotonous, without these calls days rush by without the inclination of a smile. I wonder what will happen when I die?
The door creeps open and, disrupting my reverie, the nurse walks in. She serves me food; pleasantly asking me the same question she does every day. “How are you today, Miss Bennet?”
I murmel my usual reply, indicating I am doing well, if that’s what you’d call it.
The nurse leaves, and I am alone with my windowsill full of flowers fresh. Waiting. Listening to the ticking sound of my engraved wooden clock, forcing away each of my life’s last seconds, rhythmically. Here I wait for yet another day to transgress.