Post by larien on Nov 27, 2005 14:49:30 GMT -5
Summary -- An elderly woman reflects on age during a particularly lonely Thanksgiving. Rated K
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She sits in the lobby, waiting. Behind her, an old woman scolds an even older man. The sliding doors hiss open, letting in a blast of cold November air. She has been hoping that someone might come to visit her this Thanksgiving, but it seems they have forgotten her again this year. On the table before her sits a cheerily painted ceramic turkey, a cornucopia at its feet, a reminder of happier Thanksgivings, spent in her own home.
She had told them that she didn’t want to come, that she was well off on her own. But after her husband died, her children had packed her off to a retirement home, insisting that she wasn’t safe alone. In the beginning, they visited her, making sure the attendants were kind, that she made friends. Gradually, the trickle of visitors had stopped as she disappeared into the crowd of wrinkled faces and walkers, another old woman gasping her last breaths out among strangers.
Looking around, she wonders who they had been. Surrounding her are shells of people – the man asleep in his wheelchair, spittle dripping down his chin, was once young and handsome. The woman peering at her knitting over the rims of her glasses once flirted and teased. Each one has a story to tell, an event to recall. Each one has a secret that will die with them, a dream that never happened. Each one had thoughts and doubts, unshakeable beliefs. And not one of them had ever thought they would end up here.
There is no one to listen to them. When they are visited, people speak as if they were conversing with small children. They smile and nod, never taking in what is said. Inside, they scream to get out, afraid of the age and the smell of death that hangs in the rooms.
She lives more in the past than in the present. She remembers days spent with her husband, each time he laughed and smiled. She wonders where he is now, if there really is life after death. If, when she dies, he will be waiting for her with open arms. She thinks that she would like that.
Sometimes, students come from the high school to fill their quota of community service hours. They sit with her and talk, fiddling with useless projects supposed to catch her interest. She can tell they don’t really want to be there, that they wish they were home, doing whatever it is they do. She wonders if she was the same when she was young.
When she was their age, she had imagined herself with white hair and wrinkles, an old woman. She had shivered at the thought, deciding then that she would never allow herself to grow that old. Now, looking in the mirror, she doesn’t regret her grey hairs. She thinks the women who dye their hair are vain, forgetting that she nearly did so herself. She takes pride in her age, now that she finds the time to look back on all that has happened in her life.
Getting up from her armchair, she leans on her walker and creaks over to the elevator. Turning to look at the lobby as she waits for the doors to open and smiles. The elevator comes.
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A/N – So, looking back on this, I realized what a weird ending I have. My apologies, but I really wasn’t able to come up with anything better, so criticism is welcome. And because there have been misinterpretations of some of my pieces, I would like to say that this is not a reflection on the retirement homes in America. This is fiction. I made it up.
---
She sits in the lobby, waiting. Behind her, an old woman scolds an even older man. The sliding doors hiss open, letting in a blast of cold November air. She has been hoping that someone might come to visit her this Thanksgiving, but it seems they have forgotten her again this year. On the table before her sits a cheerily painted ceramic turkey, a cornucopia at its feet, a reminder of happier Thanksgivings, spent in her own home.
She had told them that she didn’t want to come, that she was well off on her own. But after her husband died, her children had packed her off to a retirement home, insisting that she wasn’t safe alone. In the beginning, they visited her, making sure the attendants were kind, that she made friends. Gradually, the trickle of visitors had stopped as she disappeared into the crowd of wrinkled faces and walkers, another old woman gasping her last breaths out among strangers.
Looking around, she wonders who they had been. Surrounding her are shells of people – the man asleep in his wheelchair, spittle dripping down his chin, was once young and handsome. The woman peering at her knitting over the rims of her glasses once flirted and teased. Each one has a story to tell, an event to recall. Each one has a secret that will die with them, a dream that never happened. Each one had thoughts and doubts, unshakeable beliefs. And not one of them had ever thought they would end up here.
There is no one to listen to them. When they are visited, people speak as if they were conversing with small children. They smile and nod, never taking in what is said. Inside, they scream to get out, afraid of the age and the smell of death that hangs in the rooms.
She lives more in the past than in the present. She remembers days spent with her husband, each time he laughed and smiled. She wonders where he is now, if there really is life after death. If, when she dies, he will be waiting for her with open arms. She thinks that she would like that.
Sometimes, students come from the high school to fill their quota of community service hours. They sit with her and talk, fiddling with useless projects supposed to catch her interest. She can tell they don’t really want to be there, that they wish they were home, doing whatever it is they do. She wonders if she was the same when she was young.
When she was their age, she had imagined herself with white hair and wrinkles, an old woman. She had shivered at the thought, deciding then that she would never allow herself to grow that old. Now, looking in the mirror, she doesn’t regret her grey hairs. She thinks the women who dye their hair are vain, forgetting that she nearly did so herself. She takes pride in her age, now that she finds the time to look back on all that has happened in her life.
Getting up from her armchair, she leans on her walker and creaks over to the elevator. Turning to look at the lobby as she waits for the doors to open and smiles. The elevator comes.
---
A/N – So, looking back on this, I realized what a weird ending I have. My apologies, but I really wasn’t able to come up with anything better, so criticism is welcome. And because there have been misinterpretations of some of my pieces, I would like to say that this is not a reflection on the retirement homes in America. This is fiction. I made it up.