the Golden years

Ted's hair was the first to make the ambiguous transition, though
the metamorphosis remained subtle. First I noticed the greying, then
the thinning. At some point during this time, he started wearing
dentures too. Sometimes he would fall asleep at night infront of the
television, only to wake up hours later with lower teeth resting on his
chin. I didn't mind. Ted and I were friends.


He entered my life tenderly, unlike the carers who barge in
and out with the force of a hurricane, leaving me disorientated and
confused. He was wild, irreverent, opinionated and loud. They said he
was an obnoxious pain in the ass. He had no time for sitting hour after
hour beneath crocheted blankets. He despised their over familiar
endearments. He was not their 'sit down darling' or their 'Do you want
a wee yet honey', he was my friend.


Ted taught me that nothing is impossible if only I cling to
the idea that all things might be possible somehow, in some way or with
the help of someone who cared. He taught me you can't steal reality
from a mad man. I taught him that I was a good listener.



Our relationship remained very much in the hands of the
carers. They found it hard to accept that though they took full and
selfish charge of my physical body, it was Ted who took charge of my
life. They weren't comfortable with his warm and gnarled hands resting
upon my knee. Suspicious of his intentions, they'd steal in, whisking
me away to the 'safety' of my lonely room. Abandoned bereft of dignity,
I'd weep at the prospect of enforced solitude upon my
commode.


Ted was no pervert, he was my companion, my Sunday driver. In
the beauty of his eyes, I were not some frail and motionless mute,
reeking of incontinence, in soiled clothes. In his eyes I was still
May. He understood my terror, trapped in a nightmare I couldn't wake up
from. He could hear my silent pleas for freedom and he came to me.
Placing a comforting arm around my shoulders he'd whisper, "Get your
coat May, I'm taking you out".


Together we'd drive for hours along memory lane, revisiting
landscapes that had graced our lives from birth to present day. He'd
show me photographs and keepsakes, stark reminders of the days when old
age were no more than a promise of golden years. I'd show him a smile.



Seasons limped by, our journeys became hampered by red
lights, yet still the golden years avoided this place. With sadness my
friend began to fear the open road. Now fragile and frail, youth had
overtaken him in the fast lane. One night, as I slept, Ted's life
turned off at the nearest exit.


No one saw me mourn. No one heard my heart, pleading for the
right to say goodbye. He was buried as he died, with neither grief nor
celebration. I heard them reading the obituary. No next of Kin, he died
alone. 'Sadly missed by no one' they sighed. I tried to scream 'but he
was my friend'. They plonked me back on the commode.


Months have passed, the blinds are drawn on me now. These
days I no longer gaze with great longing into crystal balls, praying
that tomorrow will some how return my dreams. Instead I can only
contemplate with sadness the weathered features of a face I barely
recognise, and accept reality with a weary heart. This is me now, a
vast collection of brittle bones in an oversized skin. I am lonely
death waiting to happen.