Wk. 12 - Mourning

The piece I wrote to IBM 1401 A User's Manual is actually the first to come from a proper creative spring. The story and characters involved are from a ascreenplay I'm presently developing. I won't say much about the story itself, burt you should be able to gleen something from the written piece:

An old man, sat upon a porch, an old and worn down dog at his feet, sleeping, baking in the sun. Small creaks and groans, from the body of the old man, the frame of the old house, both sitting in their place, staring at the same street for so long, waiting for something new to arrive, or something to return.

The children in the street make him think of her, as they always have. Except before. Before Ellie. The old man watches the girl chase her ball, her black skin becomes pale, her thick curls long brown locks, her blue t-shirt a white dress, covered with sunflowers. Ellie.

Eleven years past. Passed without a word, without a backwards glance. Full of sideways glances, covered mouths, hushed speech, while he kept living, with his dog. The dog he bought for her.
The parents moved away, to greener pastures, to new beginnings. He thinks about them bitterly. Hypocrites. Charlatans. Frauds, who would spend more time at each others necks or loins than care to watch their child play. Wherever they are now, they don’t miss her. They have their own new families, new children. But he only had her.

A dog barks in the distance, and the old collie rouses her head. But she looks a moment and rests it down again, too tired, too old to start a fight. The old man, too, now too old. Too old to protest his innocence, to fight accusing eyes, accusing fingers, covered mouths. Let them think what they want, what keeps them happy, what helps them live their lives. What can he do to change their minds?

The mother. She runs across the yard, grabs the child by the wrist and takes her inside, scolding her. As she holds the door open and the child slinks in, she turns her head. Stares at the old man. Turns her head away from him.

His cue to leave. Stand up, creaking, go inside, hold the door open for the dog to slink in before him. Watch some telly, take his mind off things. News, no faith for him; cartoons, the memory of her; soaps, no. Not today. He finds an old film, black and white, and settles into it. There’s comfort in black and white, rosy cheeks that shimmer like snow, lots of wide smiles, no terrible accusing eyes and covered mouths.

A love story. A girl and a boy, who would lasso the moon and pull it down. Who would give her the moon to see her smile. Well he would pull down the moon. And not even for a smile, not for a laugh, a frown, a tear. For a pensive stare, for a cold, admonishing pout, for something to know that she was there. He would lasso the moon for that.

A tear. A tear? No, but something warm, runs down his face, to his chest, his arm, his leg, to the floor. His right side stiff, then slack. Toast. Oh no.

He wakes up later, somewhere new, white, and clean. Not heaven, no. Not so clean. He can feel the IV in his arm, the breathing tube in his nose. He can hear the voices up and down the hall, clinical instructions and obedient orders. A rhythm of “yes doctor” and “right away doctor”. Wails and moans up and down the ward, the choral orchestra playing the background for the speaking parts.

As comfortable as possible. What does that even mean? They can make him as comfortable as possible. But they couldn’t let his dog in, to sleep at his feet, to even say goodbye. Taken in by one of his neighbours. She’d have a good home now, with children. She loved children.

She’d be his only visitor in his comfortable as possible room. His last comfortable as possible days would tick by with visits from nurses with pills, doctors with charts, orderlies with trays, nurses with pills.

One visitor. Just one, who made him as comfortable as possible. Who walked in wearing a dress of white and yellow, a sunflower in her hat. Who cried and laughed at once and who knew him as he knew her. Older now, a young lady. Beautiful.

She sits by his side, replaces a wayward hair, and rests her hand on his heart. After eleven years, back with him. He does not ask her, and she doesn’t want to tell him. She can’t tell anyone, not for a while. He tells her about her parents; she’ll go and see them tomorrow. About the dog; she’ll pick her up this evening.

A departing kiss on the forehead as she stands up to leave. She reaches into her purse, pulls out something clasped in her fist. With a chain. She slips it into his hand. Something round, flat, warm where her fingers were, cold where they were not. Heavy. Ticking.

A tear. A tear? Yes. Eleven years since he’s held his old watch. Eleven years since he’s seen his little Ellie. She tells him not to cry, but he does. So she does too. Crying and laughing at once.

Gone. Just like that. Like the weight of eleven years, of 70 years before that. Gone like she was so long ago, but departed with the promise of returning. And the old man shuts his eyes, makes himself as comfortable as possible. And says goodbye.