He
opened his unwilling orbs with the usual difficulty, squinting hard and
blinking over and over, while a shaky hand fumbled with various objects piled up
on his bedside table, searching for the little lenses that would bring into
focus the world which seemed to be spinning in circles around him. When he finally found them, he took the
glasses from their place and made an effort to sit himself upright. He failed, unfortunately, and resolved to
slump back into his bed and stare at the ceiling while he worked up the
fortitude to try, try again. As he
waited patiently for his aching heart to return to its regular rhythm, he made
the decision to place his glasses delicately onto his nose and push them up into
the groove they had made for themselves over the years. The white blur that was the ceiling now
revealed hundreds of swirling, plastered waves, breaking on the shores that
were his walls and scattering the light that poured in through his window on
every foamy peak. Or maybe it was just a
ceiling. But he was behind schedule, and
there was no time to deliberate the matter any further, so the man sat up,
successfully this time, and squinted as the sun's rays intruded through the
gaping gateway of glass that so warmly welcomed the new day. Note to
self, he thought. Close the blinds.
Now
fully awake, the man had little trouble hoisting himself onto his feet with
some help from his cane, which, fortunately, had not slid from its place,
propped up against the side of the bed, during the little tumble he had taken
just a few moments before. He grabbed a
pair of underwear from the dresser beside the window and started off toward the
shower. Short, shuffling steps to the
thump, thump of the stick in his right hand eventually took him around the bed
and into the master bathroom. As was his
ritual every morning, the man left his faithful cane leaning against the bathroom
wall, trading it for the support of the ceramic counter top in which the sink
was embedded. Staring into his own eyes,
he saw that they looked remarkably similar to the way they had the day before
and the day before that one, as did his pointed, scraggly nose, his drooping
ears, and his jumbled teeth. When he
finally grew tired of his own, wrinkled reflection, he took a few steps back
and took a seat on the edge of the bath to give his legs a rest. Moments later, he scrambled back onto his feet,
leaving his pants and the underwear he had carried in with him behind and
shivering from the November cold. He
placed his glasses next to the sink, and stepped carefully into the shower,
making sure not to slip on the puddle left from yesterday.
Then
came the rain. This was his least
favorite part of every single morning to date.
Every day, he would spend at least ten minutes trying to find that magic
in-between: the temperature that was hot, but not scalding-- the temperature
that would warm his weary bones and soothe his achy joints without burning his
sensitive skin. It was a traumatizing
experience that he simply could not avoid without being rejected by the better
part of society, and, some days, he thought he would rather face that rejection
than the shower head. Tomorrow, he thought, I'll run a bath. He knew he wouldn't.
Normally,
he would wash up, towel down, get dressed, take his time eating his breakfast,
and head out to the garden, where he loved to spend his days with the leaves,
the sun, and the birds. Normally, he
would hum hymns and push his wheelbarrow up and down the yard, filling it with
undesirable odds and ends that he had clipped from his various plants. Normally, he would pull the weeds, rake the
leaves, and trim the trees until his wife called him in for lunch. But that was normally. He still lathered himself with soap, though
he had no need for shampoo, then let the water take it away. He still patted himself dry with the same
towel he'd left hanging over the side of the shower the day before. And he still dressed himself, starting with
the shorts he had brought with him into the bathroom and the glasses he had set
beside the sink , but he wouldn't be going out to the garden today.
After a
what felt like a long walk back to where his dresser sat, he again retired his
cane to its place by the bed and looked out into his yard. Leaves of every color littered the ground and
birds of every song invited the sun to climb past the clouds and warm the cool
ground. He managed a smile at this, as
he reached a shaky hand into the top drawer of the dresser and pulled out a
pair of black socks and a white undershirt.
He gave in to gravity, letting it drag him down onto the bed as he pulled
the shirt over his head, then bent over and slid the fabric tubes over his
ankles. Another journey across the room to the closet,
which contained the majority of his formal wardrobe, demanded that he take his
cane once more from its place and trudge to where he found his collared shirts
and creased pants hanging neatly in the dark space. He ran his hand along the wall until he felt
the light switch and flicked it to the 'on' position, providing just enough
light for him to discern the black pants from the blue ones; he was looking for
black. He found a suitable pair and took
them from their hanger, along with a black sport coat, a white dress shirt, a
black, leather belt, and his favorite tie.
He took
the clothes over to his bed and set them down, then stepped, one foot at a
time, into the black pants he had chosen.
He pulled them all the way up his long, wobbly legs, then slipped on the
shirt, carefully matching each button with its hole. He tucked his shirt into his pants, which he
then zipped, buttoned, and belted. A
glance at the clock on his wall told him that he didn't have long, so he
quickly fastened the green, striped tie around his neck, adjusted his collar,
and donned the sport coat, buttoning the top button as he bent over to find his
shoes. They were under the bed, already
by his feet, so he slid them out in front of him, took a seat, and put them on,
carefully knotting each one. A few
stomps assured him that they were secure, and so, with the support of his cane,
he rose again from the bed, took his flat cap from the closet wall where it
hung, flicked off the light, and started down the hall, wishing he'd had more
time.
When he reached the door, he paused. He took a deep breath and whispered a quiet
prayer, then he put on his hat, opened the door, and stepped out into the rain.