Saturday, November 5, 2011

Rory's Story #2

The old man made his way down the hallway of the nursing facility that had been his home for the past, what was it, twenty five years? “I’ve never liked this place,” he thought to himself, “the people are nice enough, but it’s not home.” His room was the last one on the right, far away from the nurse’s station and all the foot traffic. He liked that, he could do without all the busy bodies poking their heads into his room and making sure he was still breathing. He damn sure wasn’t going anytime soon, the implants made sure of that. He also liked the view from his room, you could see into the park across the street from his window, which was especially nice in the summer time. There, those two things exhausted his list of the things he liked about The Terraces, what kind of name was that anyways? The nearest thing to a terrace this place had ever seen was that wedding cake back in ’22 when the two geezers from the South End decided to tie the knot again. He thought it was a bad idea then and he thought it was a bad idea now. Two failed marriages was his limit, and those two were looking for success after three or four marriages each. Well, it had worked out in some respects, they died married anyways, although he doubted either of them recognized each other at the end.

He got to his room and took a seat in his reading chair by the window. Looking out aver the park in the late fall was nice, as you could still feel the echoes of the college kids playing in the meadow and see the shadows of all the people laying out in the sun. Now, the landscapers had gathered the leaves into a huge pile in the fire pit towards the center of the park and were getting ready for the annual bonfire that ushered summer out the door and welcomed winter to town. The bonfire was something the landscapers did every year, easier to get rid of the leaves and branches and all the cuttings this way than any other. It was something he looked forward to as it marked the calendar so clearly. He may have been the only person, outside of the Parks Department that watched it. There was something magical and cleansing about the bonfire, removing the memories from one year and clearing the plate for all the new memories that were to come. He liked that. That cleansing and creation that came with each new year, new season, new month, and new day.

The fire was roaring two hours later when he returned from dinner. The food here was nothing special, not that that was a big surprise. However, they did have great desserts every now and again. Tonight had been one of those now nights. The lackluster roast beef had been followed by a rather spectacular apple crisp, that reminded him of the apple crisp his dad use do make for family birthdays when he was a young boy. What was it about that dessert that stuck with him for so long? Was it the taste, the smells, or the fact that it was the only thing his dad could cook without reducing it to carbon? What ever it was, the apple crisp at The Terraces took him back. He had a good time with his Dad, not the idyllic moments of youth that are inevitably made into movies and TV shows, but a good time. Dad was a good man, not much of a cook, but he was a good man. It was Dad that had taught him how to find the constellations and to appreciate just how small we, as humans, were in the overall scheme of things. Recognizing that fact had helped him quite a bit in his life. His wives and children had never understood his fascination with that, his insistence that humans and insects occupied the same space in the eyes of the universe. That we were no more, and no less, important that any other thing on the planet had rubbed those close to him the wrong way over the years. He supposed that something to do with why he was sitting in his room, alone, watching the bonfire slowly burn down to coals in the park across the street. He had that effect on people; he just couldn’t let them get too close without saying or doing something to push them away. His kids, the ones he had not outlived at this point anyways, still sent cards and letters on occasion, but he couldn’t tell you the last time he had seen them in person. Some folks might be sad to hear that, but he was okay with it. His kids had treated him well and with respect, and he didn’t expect them to dote on him, not at this advanced age anyways.

The bonfire was slowing down now as the landscapers tossed the last of the branches and leaves into the pit. He took a look around the room, his home for these last, what was it, twenty five years and thought about all that had lead him to this point. A changed path here or there. A flower given to this girl instead of that one. Making that light but missing another. How did all those discreet things lead him to this place at this time? Or did they have any effect at all, was all this drawn up many years before and his path was his path, regardless of all the little things that conspired to change it. This was something he often thought of late at night, as he watched the stars make their appearance. He was tired, his bed was calling, but he just wanted to see ‘his’ stars, from his chair, and on his terms as he drifted off to sleep.

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