September 4, 2013
Our lives become a room
full of dusty plastic plants, perched on the grimy mantle above our heads,
clinging to our past. We select them for decor, unaware they will accompany us
to the bitter end. These dim green stems with pasty flowers, gummed together, a
gentle reminder for our guests, of better days, when we could actually see
their faces, now a blur that melts into the dingy curtains that block out all
life. Christmas ornaments curled up under the couch, awaiting their dumpster
demise when recovered. Ornaments, manufactured since the past five decades are
so much more interesting than Styrofoam balls covered with felt, glued eyes,
and saggy Santa hat. Photos pasted into thick nylon books are now smeared and the
once matte finish, eaten away by decay. It’s of no concern to us since we do
not recognize the people in the pictures, hugging us, laughing with us,
experiencing the Seven Wonders of the World
together. Favorite cassette tapes, CD’s, even books on tape, worthless to the
foggy hearing. Decks of cards tossed to the back of the drawers, useless to
their owner who adored playing every Thursday evening with friends. Jackets,
sequin sweatshirts, sweater sets and jumpers hang at odd angles in the closet,
pushed aside for comfy mumus and flimsy robes. No shoes grace the floor since we
can’t wear any of our favorites, all are discarded in silent agreement.
Empty boxes of all sizes,
Kleenex (used or not,) empty toilet paper and paper towel rolls, rubber bands,
stacks of paper napkins from restaurants of all sorts, plastic containers, both
pint and quart sizes, coupons from another lifetime, magazine articles and
opened mail, all sorted and organized for storage. Everything lies in
anticipation of a rainy day.
My world narrows since hers
is so minute, and I care for her. Everything is a reminder of what she can no
longer do. The television has become the enemy since she cannot follow the
baseball, basketball, hockey puck, football, golf ball, tennis ball, and her
most recent adoration-the soccer ball. The radio is welcoming as she sits in
her daytime/nighttime perch-the recliner, and hugs the sound of the announcer’s
hoarse voice, roaring the plays. I clean, wipe, toss, dust, vacuum, reorganize,
shuffle food, cook, make lists and do laundry in between all of the games of
the year. For the moment, she is content, happy even.
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