OLD TOM Options

[Galadriel]

OLD TOM


They pushed his wheel chair near to the window, placed what passed for a cup of tea on the table beside him, and went to deal with next person. “Did you watch … No, but I heard about … really, who’d have thought …” There was something soothing about their inane chatter. The window was open. New mown grass, daisies, and wood smoke scented the breeze that danced on his memory.

August, it was, a late hay making, on just such a day as this. All scythes and pitchforks then, no fancy machinery making noise and smells. There she was. Walking across the fields, picnic basket over her arm, jug of cider in hand, hair the colour of ripe corn. All the men stopped work - and not just for the lunch, neither, but to watch her walk. Like dancing it was. Well, they could look, but her smiles were all for him.

Rumble of wheels, footsteps. Another one washed, dressed, and left to sit by the window. Jolt, two pairs of hands pull him upright in the chair, and shake him roughly. “Gotta keep wakin’ ‘em up or they don’t sleep at night. Like kids they are. Did I tell you about …” hands pat his shoulder, voices drift away.

Her hands now, they were different. Rough, from working hard in the fields, but gentle. Always gentle. With him, with the children, with the grandchildren. She was always gentle. She loved to lie in their soft bed, talking over their day, making plans, always stroking his hair and playing with his fingers to soothe him into sleep. No-one touches him now, well, none that matter. Duty contact only. Toilet, wash, dress, chair. Not uncaring exactly, but impersonal.

Swallows are dancing in the sky, way marking, soon be gone now. He remembers how she loved to watch them wheeling and diving about house. Saying their goodbyes, she fancied. Well, she always was a dreamer. She was took ill in the Spring, when the Swallows were just arriving, and she died when they left, in Autumn. He wishes they would go now and leave him be. His memories have become painful.

His brain cries ‘Help me’, but his voice won’t work, Hands shaking, can’t reach the bell. Pain beyond pain, then a soft, familiar touch smoothes his hair. “Come to me, my lovely, I’ll take of you now”. Gentle fingers take his hand and, suddenly, they are young again. Tom and Kate, walking through the hayfield, laughing in the sunlight.

They pushed his wheelchair away from the window into a side room.
“Best leave him in here just now. Doctor and undertaker'll be along soon - there’s no rush.”

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This post has been edited by Galadriel: Jul 4 09, 05:40

[Psyche]

Oh my, Galadriel, you've certainly word-crafted a clear picture of an old people's nursing-home. Few words, splendid imagery and dialogue.

When I saw this, I slammed on the brakes to read it (I'm not reading or writing many short stories these days). My husband is in a nursing-home right now, with dementia. Fortunately, it's one of the 'good' homes, nonetheless there are no perfect homes. The psychiatrist prescribed (or ordered) my husband's internship, coz he constituted a danger in our home as well as the apartment building where we lived. It's true that he did dangerous things with the gas and escaped several times down to the street (once without clothes...), but I felt that a baby had been snatched from my arms. It was awful....

So now I visit him & give him lots of love & hugs...I shall come back to comment on YOUR work instead of my own life asap.

But first let me congratulate you!
Psyche (Sylvia)..... and a warm welcome to MM!