Dorothy
Davies
Still
water
Will you walk with me
a way?
Not far,
just to the end of this road.
I
am...empty inside and need a few moments of interaction with someone. Oh my,
that sounds so formal, doesn’t it? In truth, though, to ask you for a few
moments of idle chatter, or gossip would be nonsensical. Especially with what I
have in mind.
You look
wet, is it raining? Oh I see; it’s that fine drizzle that no umbrella can ward
off, so you didn’t bother. Me? No, I don’t get wet. Call it a shield if you
like, rain tends to avoid me.
Tell me,
how are things at the nursing home these days? Does the garden bloom as fine in
spring and summer as it used to? I recall the days of sitting out there,
listening to the birds that would be singing as if their lives depended on it,
the insects buzzing and flitting hither and thither as if their lives depended
on it … come to think of it, they did. But us, the static ones, we stayed where
we were, in our wheelchairs or sun loungers or wherever the staff had put us,
there to bake in the heat until they took us back into the coolness of the home
once more. Not a word of complaint from any of us, you know that, but oh the
longing at times for shadow, cool water and rest from unremitting sunshine was
overwhelming. But it was life and despite its many, many drawbacks, we clung to
it tenaciously. Why? I wonder now why I did not just give up and drift
away.
The big
problem really, for all of us, is memories.
They
hurt.
‘Sometimes memories walk a little hard.’ The wisest words I ever heard, from the
most wonderful person I ever knew, my maternal grandmother. Oh she was right!
How hard do the memories walk when your means of perambulation is either wheels
or a walker? You recall the times when three strides would take you to the door,
the cupboard, the TV, whatever/wherever. You recall the way you could walk
freely down the road, wander round the shops, visit restaurants and museums,
libraries and stately homes. Can you even begin to imagine not
walking?
Of course
not.
It
doesn’t come to all of us but enough … oh yes,
enough.
But look
at me now. Do I not walk well? Proud, tall and easy? Not so much as an ache in
the hip joints or knees, the ankles flex and move as they should. Ah, the joy of
it.
You? You
are too young still, in terms of experience, to fully understand the joy I feel
at being free to walk again.
I have to
ask … do you not remember me? The old cantankerous lady who sat in her
wheelchair in the garden and demanded cool drinks and ice cream and got neither?
Do you not recall how I asked for shade and had none offered to me? Do you not
know the suffering you put me through, you who were paid to care and
didn’t?
Well, I got you to
walk with me a way. And look, here we are, right by the cemetery which is now my
home. Oh, you will not escape me this time! Now I see the horror on your face as
I cast off the mask of humanity and show you what I am. A
skeleton.
Bony
hands can grip harder than flesh covered ones, can’t
they?
Will you
walk with me a way? Let me show you where I lie, here in the cold earth, with
not so much as a snowdrop to lighten the darkness of the earth. No one cared,
did they … and you, you were one of the worst. Did I not see you laughing behind
closed doors at those who pleaded for respite from sun and thirst and were
ignored?
Oh, you
did not know, did you, that after I left your side of life I returned, over and
over again, to watch, to record, to – all right, stalk you if you
like.
Here we are. This is
my narrow bed.
Will you
share it with me for a while?
Like, eternity?
Dorothy Davies
lives on the Isle of Wight, a small island off the south coast of England.
There she works as an editor, writer and medium, channelling books from the rich
(and not so rich) and famous from all eras of history, ancient through modern.
Her novels are available from Amazon. She edits and features in Static Movement
anthologies.
Her latest
book, I Bid You Welcome, is available from
Check out my writing website:
www.notes-from-a-smaller-island.com
www.notes-from-a-smaller-island.com
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