The voice told him to move, but he wouldn’t. After the long hours of lying there in the dark, he wasn’t sure that he could move. Still, he chose not to even try as he knew it would not matter one way or the other. The voice called again, and he allowed its sound to drift off into the blackness of his mind.
The voice he knew to be that of his granddaughter. He loved her. He really did. He had loved her from the moment he placed his arms around her miniature body, a baby four weeks premature. It was in her soul that he felt the presence of his own mother, a feeling that made him complete as though he had arched the circle of life and had been gifted enough to be alive to see it, to hold it, to kiss it. She had been staying with him and his wife for the past month and he had gotten used to a young voice within the walls of their home. Their daughters had moved out so many years ago. Now, in this late winter of life, one of their daughters, Sarah, sent her only daughter in her place.
The past three months had been a blur. Time to a man in his old age is different than time to someone in their thirties. Memory is a matter of reference points and in the later years in one’s life, so much repeats. It is a blessing, though, that memory comes in to fill the time. In youth, life is taken almost entirely in present tense, but in old age, with more days behind than ahead, the past blends with the present in ways that cannot be described, only experienced. The past, one learns, can be a gift. Miriam, his wife, had begun to get headaches and got a few tests done. Nothing serious. Then again, that is what they tell everyone. A week after that they received the phone call that told them of the cancer. A doctor, about as old as his granddaughter, told him and his wife about her condition. His wife took the news with the strength that she always seemed to have. He, likewise, did the same, following her lead as he always had done.
Everything moved so fast. One day she began to get dizzy, the next she was seeing double. Somewhere in between it all, their daughters came over and helped with the chores and stayed awake at night in case their mother screamed out from a lucid dream that the medications brought on her. Please understand, he would do what he could, but sometimes, God forgive him, he would sleep through those episodes. He would awake to find one of his daughters asleep on the floor next to the bed or asleep with their head on Miriam’s chest, holding her hand.
Death, when one is young, seems far away. It will always happen “then,” subconsciously being late in life when all loose strings have been tied up and all dreams attained. The romantic amongst the group feel that the dreams give life their value and once the dreams do not turn out, life can be ended at whim. But that is the dialogue of youth, of extremes, of intense passion. With time and age, one cuts the dreams free to sail out to sea and tends to the garden that they have been given. Life then takes on a different meaning; the bitterness of idealism cracks open and pours into the earth. One tills the soil, pulls the weeds as best one can, and prays for good weather. That is what can come with age; acceptance of the seasons.
The old man thought all this as the sounds of nails scratching against the headboard began to lessen and lessen. He was not surprised at this turn of events, though he could tell from the cursing of his granddaughter that she was both angry and scared. He had seen men die while in the army back in the late 1920's. He was so young then, barely any hair on his face, yet he saw death again and again. It was not like in the movies. Some men did die peacefully, others kicked and screamed till their last breath. He had resolved years ago that there was no rhyme or reason to such things. In the end, they died just the same.
Next to him now was his wife of over seventy years. How familiar was her body against his that he could not feel at peace when he closed his eyes unless he could feel her on his left hand side. They had become one over the course of those years, but in ways that he could not explain. She was as much a part of him as was his own consciousness. But again, this was without the drama that so many expect, perhaps even he himself expected when he was young. He knew Miriam’s smell and touch and could, at times, read her mind. They had been together for so long that he could no longer remember what life had been like without her.
And now... and now she was dying. There, in the bed next to him. His granddaughter had all but given up talking to him. He was stubborn. He wanted to be next to her in her last moments, even if she no longer recognized him. He did not even need to open his eyes to see her there next to him. Her mouth was open and she was reaching for something in the air again and again. Then her eyes opened, wild with... with an emotion that seemed to be pulled from her darkest dreams. The granddaughter was too young to see all this, too young, he thought. Still there must be a reason, as there is a reason for everything.
The end was coming. He could feel it enter the room as he had when his mother died. His bride was flailing now, more so than ever before. She was calling out names of people, of things. There was no connection he could make between any of them. The granddaughter tried to hold her arms so she would not hurt herself, but she moved too fast and was too strong. Then, like a bolt of lightning that one sees out of the corner of their eye for a second, silence fell into the room. Miriam, her face in a grimace for hours now, relaxed. The granddaughter got hold of her arms and cried, “Mama!” and began to try to see what was happening, though she knew. Gently, she put the arms on her grandmother’s side.
She sat back in her chair and did not cry. “Grandpa...,” she said in a voice as tired and flat as the desert, “Grandpa, wake up. Please wake up. You must get out of bed...”
He heard her, but slowly her voice was swallowed by a cold that began to fill him. She was gone now and he was lost. He could feel part of his soul wither, see the cut branch fall to the ground before his eyes. She was part of him in ways that he could not describe. Seventy years together. How many had passed since they met? How many since? How many after they were gone?
These questions filled his mind, swirling into a beautiful maelstrom of a dream. He was with her, then he was alone. This exchange went on for what seemed like an eternity of exchanges until he could feel her hand against his. She kissed him with the same kiss she gave him on their wedding night. She said nothing, but smiled and let go, walking away into the distance.
“Grandpa...,” he heard, pulling him into the voice that called to him. It was then that he noticed he was crying. For a moment he felt the tears rolling across his turned face, hitting the pillow that was underneath him. He closed his eyes slightly harder and heard the drops fall, one by one, remembering the first time he had ever tasted rain.
Copyright 2005 Brimstone and Blue Productions
kovacsmusic@yahoo.com