Please come and go from me, my love

“Let’s go for a walk”, said a gentle, male voice, as a firm hand touched her back. She looked up, it was the young nurse, the one she liked. She pursed her lips. “Come, the doctor said you must...” She didn’t care to listen, she knew what the doctor had said, she knew it all, it was no use resisting. Limply, she raised her right arm and allowed him to guide her, as she took small, silent steps, towards the door, always looking down. She squinted, it was a bright day, it was hot, why must she walk? Why must she leave her room? Did they really imagine it could make any difference?

The young man was kind and she secretly enjoyed humoring him. “A real gentleman”, she thought. A shiver began in her chest and quickly went down to her waist, where it, somehow, nestled. She faltered and her caretaker gently held her up. “Easy”, now “easy... She didn’t hear. “A real gentleman”, the scene was played vividly before her inner eyes. Yes, that’s what she’d called Anthony, how she’d described him after they’d first met. She felt flushed and ran (ran!) home. She laid in her bed and dreamed of his voice, his eyes... and, unable to keep her secret, she confided in her sister Althea, she’d met a... “A real gentleman.”

And he’d been the gentlest of men, always... well, not always. He was prone to bouts of tense, male anger. No, not fits, no explosions, his voice would turn gruff, his eyes would gleam, and he would scowl and question her: How could she “this”? And how could she “that”? What was he questioning her about? Was it serious? Oh, at the time it seemed so grave, she would hide her face in her sheets and try to muffle her sobs. What was it? It seemed now... it couldn’t have been so serious, it was just...he was so proper, and she was so... free.

Free! What freedom was there now? No freedom to stay in her air-conditioned room! She must walk, walk in the sun! And yet she couldn’t really walk, she had no freedom! “Look”, said John, the nurse, in a voice that attempted joyfulness, “Look up, Miss Rosie, it’s such a beautiful day.” She felt, again, compelled to humor him. The intense luminosity hurt her eyes and she squinted. Around was a menagerie of decay, of age, of mindlessness, every day for years she’d seen them and most of them didn’t even know who she was. Or who they were!

Ah, to have that... to live in such oblivion, might perhaps make it all bearable! But she remembered, she remembered all, she instructed new caretakers in their tasks, step by step, and scolded them when they made the slightest mistake. So young, and yet so stupid! Of all the memories, Anthony was real, smiling, kind, his eyes deep with burning love, in joy, in anger, in sulkiness...

When he was cheerful, he smiled broadly, his teeth, even and composed as he was, gleamed, as did his eyes, and his smile extended to all his face, contorted, as it were, in spasm of joy. It seemed anyone who witnessed such radiance must be swept by its contagion, must be enchanted by it’s sweetness, and, at first, she guarded him with passionate and restless jealousy. She remembered how surprised she was, after a few months, when she’d realized that all women were not in love with him. But all did love him or, if any held against him any grudge, they could only conceal it in their hearts. Near him, they must join him.

She remembered how they’d run in their garden, on sunny days like this, laughing as their trickling sweat burned their eyes or salted their tongues, stopping to collect flowers, roses, daisies, hyacinths... gather them in multicolored bunches and spread them in vases around the house. She remembered how they would read very serious books, and discuss very serious subjects, and fancy themselves, altogether, very serious, in the evenings, by the fire. They would join hands and pray for their unborn children, who never came, even though they had been named, their characters described and their education carefully designed. But, no matter, he would embrace her and, ah, how she loved him!

Suddenly, all her being was possessed by such a youthful longing as if she could run again into their old bedroom and playfully leap into her lover’s arms. He’d smile, that smile that was only his, he’d look into her eyes and she would be all there, with him, and yet totally lost to herself.

But it was not so. “Let’s go back in”, she managed gruffly. “But, Miss Rosie, we’ve just come out, let’s sit...” “I’m tired”, she retorted, taking care to sound even more fatigued and annoyed than she felt.

Back in her room, on her bed, she felt a coolness run through her body and dropped her head on her pillow. She’d brought that pillow from home, so many years ago. It had been his pillow, and after decades she could still smell him, she sank into his chest, she kissed... Ah! but he was not there, the smell suddenly faded, it was all so, so... useless. And, when, after all, would she finally go and meet him? When would she be free again?

The bright afternoon, the trees, the grass, the reflective white plastic seats, sat on by old imbeciles, still crept through the closed window. “Please”, said she to her current caretaker, “do draw the curtains’. The ponytailed girl stared at her blankly. “Close them, close them”, she yelled, “Close them now”!

Meekly, the young woman walked to the window, drew the curtains closed, then turned and eyed her in stricken silence. Exhausted, she sank her head into her pillow. Tears, generous and warm, tears she hadn’t known for years, streamed freely down her cheeks. Slowly and laboriously she raised her head. “And please!”, she cried, “Please, take this pillow away.”