A not so simple life

Holding the pen is hard to do when the fingers have lost the elasticity of youth; the bones in the fingers have lost their movement and the skin shrouds the hand in far too much material.

The glasses; small, heavy framed, slightly blurry help the tiny veined eyes to make out the words that the hand is writing. They would help more if the owner allowed them to be rinsed under the tap with a bit of washing up liquid, but they’ve refused. Actually, the owner had bristled when it had been suggested. She had sucked in air between her worn teeth and then held her thin pale lips pursed tightly together to forbid any profanities from escaping; to not allow the words to come spilling, spewing, overflowing like a torrent out of the thinly lipsticked corners. Swallowed back again whole, she’d said a quiet thank you and bade the helper leave her to it.

Past the window ledge where there sleeps a brindle, blind cat, she can see the trees swaying in the November winds; their trunks and branches performing a ballet as the remaining leaves finally succumb. The noise is soft with the windows closed. She could now open them as catching her death would be an ironic turn of phrase but the legs that hold the body and the arms of these gnarled hands are also not the legs they used to be and the effort that would be required would be immense and so she sits and looks at the trees and hears the low, soft moan of the wind and remembers her hat blowing off her head. It had been the first time she’d met you and she’d had no inkling that you would be there for the rest of your life as you ran for her hat. She’d laughed and you’d run and scooped it up from the leaves and the dried remnants of the autumn fall were stuck inside the knitted wool and as you tried to pick them out, they’d disintegrated and seemed to stick more and she’d laughed harder and you’d blushed and she’d fallen for you just like the leaf from the tree. You were lovely. You were funny and soft and hard and prickly and gentle and annoying and generous and hers; she was yours. Had you both lived seven decades later, she thinks your lives would have been quite simply marvellous.

Writing this is hard. It means there is a finality; a full stop about to occur. Some people had their end planned before they’d even begun. They had responsibilities; spouses, children. Others. She has no real others. You’d had others; husband, children and she had been one of your others when your full stop had arrived. You had shocked some by what they felt had been a moment of madness or a mistake. No one left their wedding ring to a friend when there were daughters and future daughter in laws. Who did such a thing and when they were alive too; barely but alive. You’d held her left hand and with no words at all placed the band of gold on her ring finger. You’d held her hand tightly and not let go and held it until it was time to leave.

She reaches to twist the ring around her finger. It’s far too big and it falls off and so now it’s taped on and can’t be seen and it is as if there is a cut there and the plaster is protecting the healing; so it can’t be twisted but it also can’t be lost and so she holds it.

A cup of tea has arrived in a beautifully delicate, china, patterned cup of the sort she hates. The sort that is hard to hold as you burn the nub of your finger that has to squeeze into the small handle to support its weight. The bearer of the tea opens up the drawer and removes the mug and tips the tea into it over the sink. It is worth the loss of a mouthful or two of tea in order to not have to drink from the cup and it is worth the loss of a mouthful or two of tea to keep the mug in her room where it can be safely stored. They think she is pedantic and a little troublesome and peculiar. They are right and she doesn’t care. They think this is why she has no visitors apart from the nieces and nephews who perform the task as a duty once each season. She knows why they come. She understands why they like to ensure she knows their names. She knows they’d like a little bit each of the leftovers once her meal was eaten.

She hears a mew as the cat stretches on the bed having managed to move there without being noticed. She admires this little creature who spends her days as nights but manages to find all the important things necessary to live. Her food; her water; a hand to stroke her and her way out into the garden and back. Nothing had been rearranged or purchased since she’d lost her sight so that the learned routes were never changed. The owner would give very precise instructions to the helpers where things were to be put and it didn’t always go down well but the owner didn’t care. Watching this animal jump down and move around with barely a bump or a false turn was awe inspiring.

Tea drunk. Page still very blank save the well-used opening lines of this being the last etc...etc... It’s actually the first and only and won’t actually take much writing as there isn’t a huge amount to say. There is a huge amount to leave; a benefit of a frugal, simple life and having no others.

The pen is picked up once more and the words written.

It isn’t long before she too, like the autumn leaves, finally succumbs. There hadn’t been time to put up a tinselled tree and she’d have been happy at that as she’d never bothered when she lived her life unaided with such festivities. She’d allowed the helpers and carers to do what they liked around her house to keep them happy but not in her room and not on any of the cat’s well-trodden paths.

She’d have liked to have known what was said. She’d like to have heard the reasons she may not have been of sound mind. They wouldn’t get anywhere. The solicitor had shown the height of professionalism when she’d come over to place the will into safe keeping. She hadn’t said...oh, you’re a one. You’ve always been a one. No. She’d said good bye with her usual kiss on the cheek and had only smiled as the front door had closed behind her.

She’d walked along the driveway to her car and sat inside. Turning on the engine she’d laughed as she reversed.

Lucky cat