A DOOR CLOSED

This is a piece written by a member of my Writers' Group. Although it has been written as fiction, the truth of his observations shine through. Thank you, Richard, for being a Guest here.

(Death and taxes don’t exercise my thoughts of the future too much. Being powerless however, the loss of influence over my environment: that can give me pause. )

The door had closed as my son Phillip left, without my having to push it firmly shut or slide a bolt across. I felt like I was in a hotel room. I realised that I no longer determined who came through my front door. Carers would have passkeys.

Phillip and his wife Sophie had explained all the advantages and safety features living in the Home would bring. I would be properly looked after. I complained of course, found excuses not to do it ‘just yet eh?’ Where would there be room for all my knick-knacks, the things the grand-kids had bought as holiday prezzies, the knitted doll I had made and won back in the air ambulance raffle ten Christmases ago. The memories that went with the various souvenir plates I had bought as I travelled the lakes and moors on my trips. I didn’t mind hotels then. The plates were associated with memories that I could place; drinking in the scenery as I sipped tea from a Thermos.

Phillip patiently explained that they would take their time packing my former life into storage so that I could identify those things most precious, that I missed the most - but I knew I wanted all of it. I wanted the photo albums I could turn the pages of, not to open folders on my laptop.

I picked up the three mugs and the plate of biscuits from the small dining table so that I could wash them up; and then was struck at the thought that I no longer had a kitchen. I’ll rinse them out in the bathroom then, I thought. I heaved against the wet room door, gripping everything awkwardly lest I drop the biscuits in the loo. The sink was tiny. I couldn’t get a mug under the tap. Damn this. I left the tea things on the loo lid and returned to the sitting room. It was only a few steps to my wing backed chair – something I had insisted make the move with me on the day, and it sat turned side on to the ‘balcony’ doors. There was a mature tree in the middle of the green space, but it barely masked the soulless aspect of the other wing to the Care Home. Others, across the way, were probably staring back across at me.

I looked across the rest of my room. The table with two dining chairs were tucked in so as not to overwhelm the space. There was a TV hung from the wall above a small wooden-slatted radiator surround. Every wall was cream. None of my plates or pictures could go up without supervision from housekeeping. There was a fitted wardrobe, but the clothes to go in it were still in my suitcase. Just my ‘smalls’ had been placed in the three-drawer cabinet next to the bed. The coverlet managed to hide many of the technical aspects of the motorised bed but the wheels could not be disguised. Blunt, grey, institutional and just, well, ugly.

I sat, ready to cry, but without the energy to do even that. The silent room wrapped me up. I could hear my clock on the surround. It was normally a soft tick. Now, it ticked loudly onwards and life in my new home ticked with it.

I would wait here then; until the battery ran out.

Richard Wood

justputinanything@gmail.com