Monotony

Her bleary gray eyes scanned the small square of horizon that appeared on her window screen. Small trees swayed in the breeze as streaky clouds slowly etched their way across the gray-blue sky, nearly mirroring the cloudy gray-blue of her gaze. In the foreground, little purple flowers dipped their heads to her as if in greeting and two small birds hopped gently on the ground. If she had blinked at the wrong moment, she wouldn't have noticed that occasionally the little birds would appear to be missing a foot where one had just been a moment ago or a small flower would appear and disappear as if it were too shy to be seen. A terrible shame.

Each day is nearly the same. Wake with the light from the window screen, walk to the common room for coffee that is severely diluted with tepid water to prevent her from ingesting too much caffeine or burning herself, and return to her high backed chair patterned with paisley teardrops and loops. The chair back was tall enough that she could tip her head back to rest on the thick white pillow of curls that she weaved into something resembling a neat bird’s nest around her crown. In this position she could almost ignore the inaccuracies and imagine she was truly looking into the wide expanse of the endless sky that she could still recall from before she took up residence here. The shuffle of slippered feet in the hall and the scrape of knobbed fingers along the walls nearly passed for the whisper of wind and the slight clatters and bangs from the common spaces, attendants, and machinery could almost be the chatter of small creatures. Often, when her heart would grow heavy, she would simply close her eyes and rely on her fading memory rather than continue to make something genuine where there was none.

When her eyes were closed she could conjure the landscape with such detail that she would nearly forget she was in her own mind and not truly there. The warmth of the sun would bring pinkness to her weathered cheeks as a dry breeze cooled them again. In her nose, the smell of wildflowers and rich, deep soil danced together as if they really did drift to her on the breeze. The rolling hills stretched out before her, the tall grasses rippling in the wind to look like ocean waves of gold and green with crests of tall trees lining the tops of the hills. Livestock would graze in some spots and crops would grow in others. Every now and then there would be the quiet trickle of a stream or the bright chirp and whistle of prairie birds. Sometimes when she retreated into her mind's eye, she was alone in the peaceful plains. Other times she would bring back the memory of people who she had shared parts of herself with over the course of her long life. Her husband, long dead, would appear as he had been in his 30's. Broad shouldered and proud with eyes that twinkled just for her. Her children, all five of them or some assortment, gathered around her feet playing or bickering, but always young and a bit blurry around the edges. Children grow so quickly that it’s hard to pin down their exact likeness at any point in time. On the rarest occasions, her own grandmother would join her, withered and leathery but warm and kind, looking out over the land. Just two crones reflecting on their lives, deciding if it is a blessing or a cruelty to live so long. The would speak inaudibly to each other of the things that mattered to old women and she would watch as if she were outside her own body. Never quite near enough to catch whatever wisdom she hoped her grandmother would impart.

There were no books that held her attention, no neighbors with their wits about them enough to carry an interesting conversation or complete a game of cards, no attendant with enough spare time to give some to her. She would wander, as if she were already a ghost. Her faithful legs remained strong enough to carry her wherever she pleased within her confines. She was grateful, truly. Life is a privilege, especially one to old age with the mental and physical capacity that she had. But it was tiresome. On her wanderings, she would pass the doors that truly showed what was outside her home and she understood why the windows in the rooms were screens with beautiful things rather than true windows when the outside world was so far from what the residents remembered. So many were deteriorating at such a pace that the sight of so much rapid and unfamiliar change would surely do them more harm than good. There were trees and sky and flowers, of course, but the addition of all varieties of gray, noisy things overtook them. Metal and concrete and glass loomed over trees growing from grates and vines sprouting from cracks. Those who walked looked equally gray and hardened to match their hard surroundings.

Perhaps it was better to live in her small world inside, oblivious of the changes to the world outside, rather than having to mourn the loss of what beauty she remembered from her youth. Ignorance is bliss, she supposed.  She woke up, had her coffee, watched her window screen, and wandered, day after day after day, wondering if the loss of her senses would occur naturally or as a result of redundancy. Wake up, coffee, window screen, wander, repeat, repeat, repeat.

Longer and longer she began to stand at the doors at the ends of hallways, until she nearly stood pressing her nose to each of them in turn. Attendants and deliveries came and went, just like her days came and went, without notice until she found herself wandering by each door, gazing out, and touching the handles. Then she would wander, touch the handles, and open the door just to stand in the non-recirculated air, foul as it was.

Wake up, coffee, window screen, wander, touch the handles, stand in the door, repeat.

Repeat.

Repeat.

Until she found herself stepping out.