Seen through a window . . .

Seen through a Window

Curled on my divan in my bedroom, looking through my now weather worn window, I find it impossible to see any difference to yesterdays scene. My front walk still has the four cracks along it; my huge evergreen tree is still inhabited by a family of sparrows, of which three are still eggs, my letter box, though stating no junk mail is overflowing with just that, my white picket fence and that same mongrel dog wandering the street. These sights alone should bring me some comfort, even ease, instead though they leave me disheartened and apprehensive as to whether they will be exactly the same tomorrow. However I am done now, spent, unworried and uncaring about my limited future.

My life has been all about taking care of others, having a job at a hospital this was a requirement. As were long hours caring for those that could not care for themselves, back then the worst part of my day was coming home. So often I didn’t, opting to swap a shift here or fill in there. My life was busy and that’s the way I liked it. These days I revel only in the memory of being capable enough to merely shower myself.

I never meet that Mr. Perfect, the answer to my dreams, my one true love; I don’t necessarily regret that, though the lonesomeness does become tiresome. I had a chance once at a married life, back when I was still young and pretty. Frederick Stapleton was his name, he was ten years my senior. A handsome man and well endowed, truly gifted. He died though, god rest his soul. An illness got the better of him too.

My favourite time of year is autumn, the sound of leaves as you stand on them and the earthy colours of the season are an impressive attraction. But the one thing about autumn that stands out is the bareness of the trees, the fact that most of the year they encompass leaves, flowers, for some even fruit, but in a few weeks that can be stripped off. The tree left incapable to make itself look more than just a skeleton of tangled wood. Ironic almost that I should have an evergreen right outside my window, a reminder though that you can’t always get what you want.

My window has a crack in the left top corner; I spot this each day as I watch the clouds roll by. I was supposed to fix it or get the window replaced, but it’s an imperfection barely noticeable, unless you know what to look for. It happened one Halloween as children walked around the neighbourhood, I watched from my preferred spot, through my window as two approached my door. No one ever came to see me. When they did I always questioned their intentions, now though they were clear. These two children rang the doorbell as I watched on. Because I paid no attention to them, the smallest retaliated and threw a stone at my window, thinking nobody saw, as my earned trick. I like the blemish, gives my window character, like my wrinkles give me.

If I had any family left, my final days would have been harder, spent comforting them instead of living in comfort. Assuring and reassuring them that I would be fine, and of course I would wait. I pity those that are dying and have families.

I have a note for whoever finds my body. It explains where I want my ashes lain, it clarifies that my assets and money are to go towards the research for this horrible sickness, that will inevitably take me from this earth. To help those that can still be saved from the suffering I have endured. I hope with all my heart that Frederick is waiting. I have no fear for death any longer only fear for what might be after, if there even is something at all.

My neighbour has brought her daughter out to the garden, I watch intrigued as I am mostly by young children, at her flitting between projects, so easily distracted. Its how I have felt for the last few years, unsure of what I was doing, or about to do, moving on before I can worry too much about memory loss. My doctor explained amnesia might come into play towards the end; I had hoped it was just old age.

Today I am tired, more so than any other day, more than I have ever felt in my entire sixty years alive. I am holding my letter, as I edge toward sleep. Easing into a semi-conscious state easily, I wonder if i will wake. If today it is not just the end of autumn but the end of me, what is next?



. . . . Malory died aged 60 of Cancer, after being diagnosed she was given a year to live, she beat her odds and survived three. In death she donated $50,000 towards research for a cure. Her ashes were scattered by her window to the world. . . .