Work Text:
He lives a quiet life.
Sitting there in silence as the world rushes by speaking at a volume too quiet for him to pick up, too fast for him to keep up.
He watches as whispered words blast through mouths moving too fast to be read, his mind drifting whilst discussions occur to his left and right, streaming over his head.
Such silence broken only demanding bells ringing to remind of his pills:
7o’clock
10 o’clock
1 o’clock
4 o’clock
7 o’clock
10 o’clock
A life that was once a comfort due to the steadfastness of its routine has been shattered into new orders dictated by these new dictators.
Yet without following these marching orders?
No marching for him. No movement. Muscles seized up by disease and filled with thoughts of disobedience.
That a man who once soared through the skies for his country, who faced his own death time and time again with a ‘not today, thank you’, who crossed the ocean to begin a new life, who raised a family… That this man is reduced to struggling to articulate his thoughts, to move. This Man whose steady hands once carved artwork (that he claims is unimpressive because he merely copied rather than invented) and delicate puzzles is now incapable of cutting his own food.
In what world is that just? Fair? Right?
Father Time rapes all dignity. Taking. Taking. Taking.
It is not fair that Time has stolen his Sweet Valentine (his Pet) from him too.
Not. Fair.
Though I suppose I show my own youth for still dreaming that life ought be fair.
Still, it is down to those who still can to help him. An impossible task to do correctly. Should one watch him struggle to prove to himself that he can still do things? How long should one wait when he has paused in speech to ascertain whether he’s finished speaking or is just taking a pause to try to clutch his thought process as desperately as though trying to clutch blood gargling from some fatal wound?
It is so hard.
Are these words angry? Damn straight they’re furious. Violent imagery. Angry language. Fury at the hand he has been dealt by Time.
Sorrow.
I can’t deal with sorrow while watching him in his arm chair. It is his wife who has died. He should have gone first. No one expected her to go first. Not at ten years his junior.
I can’t feel that sorrow. Not now. I have no right to it. My time to grieve will be later when the earth has settled.
Let Anger warm my blood instead of the sweet embraces from his Valentine.
He may sit in his chair, book in hand, whilst his life is packed up around him. Belongings split amongst his children. Furniture transported to his new Home.
His Wife not yet in the ground for a month and moving already.
So many changes. Alterations to a routine set in stone.
I used to compare them to rocks in my mind. Weathered, aged rocks, assailed by wind and rain and sea, but still unchanged.
They were the support of their family. The matriarch and patriarchal units.
What will happen now that those rocks are broken? Shattered.
Arguments are already beginning. Do they not realise that Family is all they have? Bands that are stressed too often will eventually snap.
Still. Time to carve out that Anger. It has no place here.
Back to the image of that man sitting in his chair, book in hand.
Soon, too soon, this house will be empty, a broken shell, representative of what has been lost.
The single crow, chickadees, squirrels and three mice might gather morning after morning to collect their breakfast in vain. Pawing around the patio in vain attempts at finding the food which once was there daily.
No one will be left to feed them so they too will move onto new pastures.
He leads a quieter life now.
