Dust of Ages

The bed is crooked. Two hands intertwined, fingers twisted in knots like the roots of a tree. His face is a slice of oak, gnarled into an ‘O’ shape where the darkness of his mouth meets the darkness of the wood. You could count each ring and make an age, if you wanted to.

For him it’s eighty. For her it’s eighty three. Weak ages, when arthritis starts to creep into the bones. It crippled her like an orchid frozen in the snow. He’s been lucky enough to escape the disease, though has a weak bladder, and a dimming brain. Their minds and bodies are still ticking, though at a slower pace.

She wears chequered pyjamas with thermal underwear, he wears old blue long johns and a woollen jumper. The window is open and the door is locked. The phone unplugged. It’s been three hours and still nothing has happened. They sit up in bed, pillows behind their backs, holding hands, listening; to each others breath, to the wind outside, to the volume of silence that builds, moment upon moment, as nothing happens.

If you spend long enough with someone, your inner clocks synchronise. For them it had been their breath; one slow collective moan in and a soft rasp out. As the clock strikes nine, George speaks:

“Can you feel anything?”

“Not yet.”

Morning seeps through the window, as if acknowledging their presence.

“Can you?”

George thought for a moment. He had a pressure in his lower belly, like his bladder was about to burst, but that was normal. His breathing was regular, in time with hers. His eyes were a little blurry and his legs a little numb, but that was only age.

“No, I don’t think so…. When do you think it will happen?”

“Well, I want it to happen at ten.”

“You do?”

“Yes, when do you want it?”

The wall opposite them has cracking magnolia paint breaking off. It’s as though the house is ready to progress and lead its own life, but the owners won’t let it.

Marge’s hair is in curls, long rubber tubes tied to it like they’re trying to strangle each strand. She checks the clock. Five past nine. Thirty minutes until she has to take them out.

“Do you want juice?” he asks.

“No.”

“Do you want tea?”

“No.”

“Do you want some breakfast?”

“No.”

Marge tips her head to one side, a thought too heavy to hold. George knows that pose, he’s seen it often.

“What’re you thinking?”

Marge sighs and turns to look out the window. After a moments thought she speaks.

“We’re lucky, you know.”

“We are?”

“Yes.” She turns to look at George.

“We’ve not died of cancer.”

George lets out a small breath of a laugh.

“… We’re not the only ones who’re lucky enough to avoid cancer.”

He shakes her hand to soften his words.

“Well…” She says and looks around the room. “We’ve not died in an accident.”

“Lots of people are as lucky as us.”

Marge takes a deep breath in and returns her view to the window. He knows that she is trying to find words.

“We’ve not died of age.”

George leans forwards to try and look at her.

“What’s this then? If it’s not dying of age?”

“Dying of choice.”

She fiddles with the tubes in her hair, pulling the front one down. She takes both sides of the rubber and rolls them over in her fingers, until her hair is let loose. It falls down her cheek with the gentleness of the first drop of snow.

“They don’t want us to go you know.” He turns his head slightly to face her.

“I know.”

“They’ll hate us for it.”

“I know… but eventually they’ll love us.”

“Again.”

“Again.”

She pushes the curl to one side of her face, its winding body stiff yet bouncy, then lays her hands back down into the palm of his. It has gone cold in the time that hers has been absent.

“You’re cold.”

“I know.”

“Do you think that’s it?”

“Could be. Do you feel cold?”

Marge thought around her body. Her toes in hand knitted wool, her legs and torso under two layers of clothes.

“The tip of my nose… that’s it.”

She twitches her nose as she thinks of it. George does the same.

“My nose is fine.”

“It’s big enough, got enough skin.”

George squeezes her hand in childish play. He glances up at the wall facing them.

“Do you think I should have painted that wall?” He thought of all the moments when he could have had a chance, painted it yellow, or turquoise, anything but musk.

“No, it’s fine. Pink would’ve been nice though.”

“Or blue.”

“Or yellow.”

“Or azure”

“Oh azure…. That’s a sweet colour.”

They had seen this wall every day for thirty years and never cared to imagine it another colour.

“No.” Marge saps her lips in a decisive manner. “Magnolia’s nice. Makes me feel at home.”

The walls are stained with dirt and dust. Mould crawls from the ceiling. At sixteen minutes past nine, George speaks.

“Have you ever noticed that before? The way the mould crawls down from the top left corner and wiggles its way down, as though it’s trying to reach the window and climb out?”

“No, never.”

Marge looks at the clock. Ten minutes until the curlers come out. She starts to undo them anyway.

“Have you given yourself a perm?”

“No, just a light curl.”

He watches as she rolls each rubber tube in her hand as it falls through her fingers and the hair unravels. Each curl drops then leaps back up, like the air is its trampoline. It reminds him of how he first thought of her; bursting with playful energy . Only difference is the hair is white now.

“Do you remember when I tried to do your hair? You hated me for weeks.”

“I didn’t hate you, I just… .”

“You have hated me at some point though, haven’t you?”

Marge thought over the fifty years they had know each other. Over the times he had annoyed her, hurt her, and brought her to tears, happy and sad.

Nine thirty four. She drops the last curl.

“After fifty years, I’m glad you’re the one I’m dying with.” He takes her hand and places a small kiss on it. It feels like the leathery skin of the last orange in the fruit bowl.

They sit again in silence, fingers twisted together like a knotted rope.

Nine forty. Her curls have begun to loose their shape.

“You feel colder. Are you ok?” She turns to look at him but he does not respond. The slow shiver of a breath tells her he is.

“I never hated you.” He speaks through shallow lips. The tip of his nose is red against the daylight.

“I know. But fifty years is a long time. At least ten of them were hard.”

His hand begins to shake against hers.

Nine forty eight. The sun is getting brighter.

“Are you ready?”

He doesn’t respond.

Light brushes the window reflecting small shadows on the opposite walls. Marge pulls at a curl.

Nine forty nine. A slight wheeze comes from George.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

She squeezes his hand even tighter. The tips of his fingers hanging loose over the edges of the grip.

Their room is becoming bare in its old age, finding no use for material things as their lives get simpler. A broken wooden wardrobe waits in the corner, its door half off and missing both handles. They have a side each, or at least they used to, until their clothe collection shrunk. Now the wardrobe is half empty.

“ Funny old wardrobe that. Never been fixed” Marge says to George, nodding her head towards it.

She strokes his hand with her thumb.

“Are you ready? It nearly the time I wanted.”

Nine fifty two. He doesn’t respond.

She grips his hand tighter, as he loosens his. His breath ignores hers and creates its own pattern.

“Are you ready? Don’t forget to take me with you.”

He wheezes in and whimpers out. Nine fifty eight. Wind sneaks through the window.

“My nose is cold George, my poor little nose.”

He doesn’t respond.

“I’m sure yours is fine. There’s enough of it.”

She squeezes his hand a little, to make him laugh.

Nine fifty five. The cold of her nose spreads to her cheeks.

She giggles.

“Didn’t you hear me big nose? I said are you ready to go?”

He doesn’t respond.

“George?”

Nothing.

“George?”

She turns to face him. His eyes are closed. A small whistle escapes his lips, as he expels his last breath. George’s hand goes limp.

Ten o’clock.

She watches his body, his motionless chest and eyes. She lies down and mimics her husband, eyes closed, and holds her breath.

She waits.
Nothing happens. She opens one eye, the blank cracking wall her only company.

She waits.

Nothing happens.

Closing her eyes she grips George’s hand, willing death to merge through his skin and into hers. Behind her eyes she sees great colours, checkers of pink and white, swirls of blue chasing bright snaps of yellow. But this is normal; this is what she always sees.

She looks at the clock. Ten past ten. The room is silent, only clips of the outside world can be heard through the open window.

Sinking down into the bed she wishes for rest, or sleep, or anything. She thinks of George, and she thinks of peeling paint, and she waits…

She waits.