Rainyshoes

Okie doke...I went for the senses (with a brief nod to the feet near the end, LOL)...

I stare through the half-open window. To the casual observer, I am a still fixture...hardly more than an odd little piece of antique furniture...hunched over in a chair and studying the placid acreage surrounding the home. The home that, of course, will never really be "home" as much as it will simply be a very sanitary place to stop breathing, someday.

I'm fully aware that my repose is a blessing for the nursing staff, rendering me as one less problem to deal with. One less patient delusionally shrieking for a jacket to be brought to him by a wife that died twenty-six years ago. One less incontinence mess for them to clean up with a scowling face and clucked reprimands. One less trickle of spit to wipe away from the etched crevices surrounding aged lips that spoke millions of thoughts and kissed countless "I love you"s into life...yet now remain dormant, even in pain.

Not that any of it matters to them, anyway. We shriek, we shit and we drool...and, for twelve bucks an hour, they efficiently remedy the "aftershocks of life" visited upon our bodies at the most inopportune moments. There's no one around to call us "Mommy", "Daddy", "Grandma" or "Grandpa" anymore...and, pardon my sour pun, nobody really gives a shit that there isn't. But, such is life.

Or, rather...such is preparation for death.

Nevertheless, my stationary solitude makes me A Very Good Patient for the moment, though I can't help but self-consciously dab at the corners of my mouth with my handkerchief...just to be on the safe side. Vanity long since ceased to be a concern of mine many, many years ago...but I want no risk of interruption at this moment, not for any reason...so "saliva patrol" be damned. I want as little of them as they want of me right now...much less, in fact.

I have places to go, you see.

Over the years, while the cataracts slowly eroded the last of my vision, I was surprised with the most beautiful, unexpected gift from my mind as compensation for the grievous loss of myself from myself. When I could no longer see the trees as anything more than smeared blotches across the skyline, my imagination flowed in to remind me of every vein of every leaf on the maple trees in the front yard of my childhood home.

I climb those branches nearly twice a day, you know!

Although muffled, padded tones are the best my hearing aids can give me, now...I can still clearly hear the sweet, brash notes of my son's cries as I held him outside of my womb for the first time so long ago. My inability to taste is probably quite fortunate, given the sterile fare served around here...but all is not lost. The razor perception of a six year old brain precisely recorded every last tangy mouthful of my mother's lemon meringue pie and I can even feel the delightful "sugar ache" in my jaws at the first bite. Likewise, I am unable to smell the cloying scent of the pine cleaner the nurses use, yet my late husband's cologne gently teases the corners of my mind where I rest my head against his chest as we dance at our wedding. Losses? What losses? I am richly overwhelmed by the sensations of a lifetime lived and paid in full.

My only remaining sense...that of touch...alerts me to the soft tickle of a tear that has escaped my eye.

With withered hands, I quickly swipe it away, lest it invite an intrusion...not now. Please, please not now. I'm dancing with my groom. Isn't he handsome? I'm nuzzling my newborn and I'm eating homemade pie. Would you like a slice, too? I'm climbing trees and riding a bicycle for the first time and I'm smelling the rain and I'm fussing to clasp a string of pearls around my daughter's neck on her graduation day and I'm fussing to smooth my father's tie as he lays in his casket and....and....no...don't look at these twisted, gnarled feet that walked thousands of miles to harvest these memories. I AM going on a journey...look into my eyes...peer into my soul!

And then just...please...leave.

I have places to go, you see.