The Shadow
August 20th 2007 11:37
She liked the silence, he was calm, and he had no expectations. She glanced at the newsprint lying before her. He looked fixated on the light dancing before the window sill. His glare, though penetrating, was vacant and dismissive, the pupils dilated even under the harsh fluorescent light of the ward. One bulb blinked above her, it cast shadows across the bed side as it flickered on and off. Even in the stillness she always felt uneasy around him, the air seemed to stiffen as he breathed, however she was now used to these moments. What had been uncomfortable to begin with was now all she grasped to for sanity. It is what kept her from screaming for attention, for retribution.
He liked the news, it was happening, it was now, and it was real. It told of progress, it told of invention, it told of the final frontier. It was his connection to the world; it was his way of being involved. But now he could not read. Now he could not listen. Now he was but an empty shell…to her. Before she would sit on his knee facing the fire and he would read to her. Now she returned the favour.
She stared at the reality before her, the truth in black and white. She looked at her grandfather; his grey beard shuddered at his inaudible murmur. A child gazed up from the war torn pages it sat bleeding with three limbs and dressed in the blood soaked fragments of what must have been a shirt.
She was unaffected.
She found it funny- almost- that she could look at these images and not even flinch at the destruction, the way people aimlessly skimmed through headlines, pictures and articles of death without even a moment of thought. Only to stop at the comic strip or the movie listings, and laugh at what the horoscopes had in store. With all the bombs, with all the wars, with all the corruption and injustice it was funny to think that people looked to a fat orange cat and a dumb witted dog with more interest. Or could it be, she thought, that they did not care for it. They did not care for realism as her grandfather did.
She still wondered why it had happened, how it was possible.
A life not ended, shattered, worse then death, as pieces of the puzzle falling out of place at untimely rate. All that remained was the rubble of what was once a great man. Death seemed to snigger in his face…taunting, prancing before him, unreachable though still so near. He remembered only shreds of the past now, with no hope of seeing the present.
There was a hollow tap at the old oak door. It was the nurse. Creeping in she circled them. The granddaughter did not look from the paper. The grandfather was silent. What a shame, thought the nurse. She routinely drew the blinds and left the room.
The light abruptly stopped dancing and faded as everything else did for him. He was now surrounded by hazy dull shadow. There was a women sitting before him – he noticed – the woman was looking downward at a blur of text. Why? He thought that he may ask why she was here. He exhaled. She looked up expectantly at him.
“Grandfather?” she said
Was that the reason? Her grandfather?
“Wrong room.” He stated
Again she felt surprised, one would think by now she would be used to these responses. Though it again felt like a blade cutting away the connections between them. She had tried to keep their memoirs alive. The room was littered with picture frames of them, together. He now seemed but a ghost to her as she imagined she was to him. She folded the paper and rose.
The woman did not seem to like his response, though it was logical, it was true. Did she not understand? His granddaughter would have understood the importance of reality in life. The woman was now turning to the door.
“Please leave the news, I like the news.”
The woman turned back, placed the paper on the table and opened the door. The woman paused for a moment.
She paused at the door looking at her grandfather sitting in the bed. He was gazing at the paper on the table. Tears stung her eyes as she thought of the reality that had been stolen from him. Alzheimer’s had made him only a shadow of what he once was.
Just a shadow.
She closed the door.
He liked the news, it was happening, it was now, and it was real. It told of progress, it told of invention, it told of the final frontier. It was his connection to the world; it was his way of being involved. But now he could not read. Now he could not listen. Now he was but an empty shell…to her. Before she would sit on his knee facing the fire and he would read to her. Now she returned the favour.
She stared at the reality before her, the truth in black and white. She looked at her grandfather; his grey beard shuddered at his inaudible murmur. A child gazed up from the war torn pages it sat bleeding with three limbs and dressed in the blood soaked fragments of what must have been a shirt.
She was unaffected.
She found it funny- almost- that she could look at these images and not even flinch at the destruction, the way people aimlessly skimmed through headlines, pictures and articles of death without even a moment of thought. Only to stop at the comic strip or the movie listings, and laugh at what the horoscopes had in store. With all the bombs, with all the wars, with all the corruption and injustice it was funny to think that people looked to a fat orange cat and a dumb witted dog with more interest. Or could it be, she thought, that they did not care for it. They did not care for realism as her grandfather did.
She still wondered why it had happened, how it was possible.
A life not ended, shattered, worse then death, as pieces of the puzzle falling out of place at untimely rate. All that remained was the rubble of what was once a great man. Death seemed to snigger in his face…taunting, prancing before him, unreachable though still so near. He remembered only shreds of the past now, with no hope of seeing the present.
There was a hollow tap at the old oak door. It was the nurse. Creeping in she circled them. The granddaughter did not look from the paper. The grandfather was silent. What a shame, thought the nurse. She routinely drew the blinds and left the room.
The light abruptly stopped dancing and faded as everything else did for him. He was now surrounded by hazy dull shadow. There was a women sitting before him – he noticed – the woman was looking downward at a blur of text. Why? He thought that he may ask why she was here. He exhaled. She looked up expectantly at him.
“Grandfather?” she said
Was that the reason? Her grandfather?
“Wrong room.” He stated
Again she felt surprised, one would think by now she would be used to these responses. Though it again felt like a blade cutting away the connections between them. She had tried to keep their memoirs alive. The room was littered with picture frames of them, together. He now seemed but a ghost to her as she imagined she was to him. She folded the paper and rose.
The woman did not seem to like his response, though it was logical, it was true. Did she not understand? His granddaughter would have understood the importance of reality in life. The woman was now turning to the door.
“Please leave the news, I like the news.”
The woman turned back, placed the paper on the table and opened the door. The woman paused for a moment.
She paused at the door looking at her grandfather sitting in the bed. He was gazing at the paper on the table. Tears stung her eyes as she thought of the reality that had been stolen from him. Alzheimer’s had made him only a shadow of what he once was.
Just a shadow.
She closed the door.
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Comment by Jeanne Dininni
Writer's Notes
A very stirring tale--with an air of pathos permeating every line.
A sad but wonderful work!
Keep on writing!
Jeanne
Comment by Loz