I slip a piece of apple into my mouth, savoring its
juices. The buzzing fluorescent fixture above me casts its harsh light on my
crooked fingers as they pluck pieces of fruit from the bowl. They look foreign
to me. Surely they can't be mine.
Age is a terrible thief. Just when you're getting the
hang of life, it knocks your legs out from under you and stoops your back. It
makes you ache and muddies your head and silently spreads cancer throughout your
Metastatic, the doctor said. A matter of weeks or months.
But my darling was as frail as a bird. She died nine days later. After sixty-one
years together, she simply clutched my hand and exhaled.
Although there are times I'd give anything to have her
back, I'm glad she went first. Losing her was like being cleft down the middle.
It was the moment it all ended for me, and I wouldn't have wanted her to go
through that. Being the survivor stinks.
I used to think I preferred getting old to the
alternative, but now I'm not sure. Sometimes the monotony of bingo and sing-alongs
and ancient dusty people parked in the hallway in wheelchairs makes me long for
death. Particularly when I remember that I'm one of the ancient dusty people,
filed away like some worthless tchotchke.
But there's nothing to be done about it. All I can do is
put in time waiting for the inevitable, observing as the ghosts of my past
rattle around my vacuous present. They crash and bang and make themselves at
home, mostly because there's no competition. I've stopped fighting them.
They're crashing and banging around in there now.
Make yourselves at home, boys. Stay awhile. Oh, sorryI
see you already have.
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