- Hi! my name is Aiko. In this blog are poetry, and pastel, and pink cute things.
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Monday, February 18, 2019 | February 18, 2019 |
Darling
The late afternoon sun-- glaring like a petulant lover in need of appraisal, shone down directly upon darling's slightly hunched back as she struggled with maximum effort to open the gates to our house which was locked with chains. Equally, the late afternoon breeze, lulled down to a zephyr, made its scarce presence known through the lightly swaying leaves, and overhead on the telephone lines, birds are perched like a flock of tourists waiting to have their picture taken. Making a motion to genuflect by the gate (the pain visible on her face as she did so), darling rattled the stubborn chains and mouthed wondering why the damned thing won't open. Her sad form, a back fallen victim to osteoporosis, papery-thin, wrinkly hands barely trembling and arthritic, and her head--crowned with a mop of frizz, and tied in a neat ponytail accentuating the grizzle of the hair-- a melon-sized world of enigma.
What goes on in darling's head counts as a mystery albeit her habits consist of quotidian activities that a regular housewife does. Quiet as a brand new engine, she speeds through her daily chores like a well-oiled machine without so much as a complain that some people suspect that she may be incapable of showing emotions. But as the years passed, I began to see through this stoicism and am finally able to decipher darling in her old age.
Darling has always been old as long as I could remember. Her hair greying way before we became husband and wife, and her wisdom reminiscent of the days of yore, back when the world was younger, and life, simpler. There were siestas in the early stages of our marriage where we'd sit on chairs at the front porch, my eyes nodding off to sleep while darling talked about the adage that we always reap what we sow, citing examples that are now lost in the haze of memory. Her hands, until recently, were strong and sturdy; a picture of sangfroid realized each time I watch her do intricate needlework--a hobby that again, until recently, took up every afternoon of her long life.
The ravages of time however, are unforgiving. Chronos assigned to darling the deterioration of strength seen in all elderly people; the wheels of time runs at high speed, parallel to the slowing down of her reflexes, which fact made her clumsy and accident-prone. The once agile body that could drag a sack of rice from the front yard to the pantry turned out to be less than hale these days. Worst of all she begins to manifest bouts of forgetfulness--gaps in her memory paid at a high price. She would forget to lock doors at night, forget to turn off the gas in the kitchen, among many other things, including the one at the moment with the key to the gate's lock.
What darling forgets, I remember. I've unlocked the key to the mystery that is her. In her silence all she ever wanted was to be appreciated but all I reciprocated her with was an equal, deafening silence. In her refusal to show emotion was an invitation for affection, but on my part there is only indifference. And the heavy burden of everyday work she bore with dignity only to receive more silence from the other end. She has only herself to blame for this--it is she after all, who once told me that we reap what we sow.
I've been watching darling more often lately and I know she watches me back. Her maladroitness because of age is beginning to show. Her rusty knees are beginning to give way, same with her hands that could no longer hold a knife steady. She is also experiencing faecal and urinary incontinence which makes her smell absolutely repellent. Add in the above-mentioned fact of her forgetfulness, and you get the picture of an elderly person fribbling away at the twilight of her life with little else to do but wait for the sun to come down on her.
It is not a pretty picture.
I'm sorry darling that you're forgetting a lot things nowadays, the key to the gate's lock being the latest.
I'm sorry darling that as you lower yourself with both knees arthritic and in search of the spare key, I merely watch you with a bit of impatience because I'd like to lay on a comfortable bed already.
I'm sorry darling that I know where the spare key is (on the plant pot furthest to the right) but don't bother to tell you.
I'm sorry darling that you're useless now.
I'm sorry darling that you haven't figured that out yet.
I’m sorry darling that no one wants to have anything to do with you anymore except me.
When darling finally found the key and managed to open the gate, she turned to look at me, gesturing with her head that all is ready. She went up to the tricycle whence I am sitting, and the driver with a nonchalant look observes us: darling lowers herself once again with trembling difficulty and I latch on to her back. Darling carries me with what little strength she has left, kyphotic and struggling. I would have walked by myself but my legs are amputated due to complications from Diabetes. She may have complained out loud but there's no way I could hear her anymore. And even if she did I'll only respond with my silence. A dead weight, that's what I am, but darling is no more as useful.
Together, my darling and I, we'll watch the sunset. I'll no longer be on her back but beside her, holding her hand. We’ll reminisce about the old days in the comfort of our heads without a single word to be exchanged between us. My darling, she’s tired. I could see that but it really does not matter at this point, we both are.
Then when night comes, we'll patiently wait for each other to go to bed, both of us hoping and praying for the other to die in his or her sleep—basically the same thing we did last night, and the night before that, and the night before that, and the night before that.
Labels: 2019, aiko lactaotao, aiko-lactaotao, aikolactaotao.com, asian writers, filipino women writers, filipino writers, first drafts, flash fiction, literature, short story
