Pulled Up by the Roots

The screen door slammed. “Good bye,” it said. Grace lowered herself down the porch steps on knees lacking cartilage, bone on bone.

In the low two seated car, few words were shared between the women on the 3 hour drive to Grace’s new home: wide mauve hallways, incessant call bells, best of bad choices on a nurse’s pension.

Alone is relative here; long gone the silent mornings.

“We chose this together, Grace,” her niece repeats.

“Yes.”

“I’m sure you’ll be happy, in time,” Sarah hugs her goodbye.

“In time,” Grace whispers to the closed door.


Escape
Grace’s wheelchair slipped out double doors.

Liquid Ambers dropped red leaves and spiny seeds. Grace zipped her jacket against cool breezes. She passed manicured gardens on Cedar Street and remembered strolls with Hugh after the War.

“Kitty, kitty,” Grace spoke to an orange tom who jumped into her lap. “Well aren’t you forward,” Grace heard herself laugh.

Sixty-five minutes later, she returned, an OPD cruiser parked outside of The Manor.

“You didn’t sign out,” the administrator said.

“I could just sign my name and leave?”

“We’ll discuss it.”

“We are discussing it.”

“OK, before dinner, no escorts”

Grace nodded.


In Time
He wheeled up to Grace and presented her with a single yellow rose.

“Happy Birthday, Grace,” he twinkled.

“I hate birthdays, Harry.”

“Better than the alternative.”

“Who knows. Shirley doesn’t even know where she is.”

“Probably. But she’s enjoying every bite of cake,” Harry said.

“She enjoys wandering into my room in the middle of the night, too,” Grace said.

Harry’s great grandson arrived with a fist full of balloons.

“Matt, better save some of those for Grace,” Harry said.

“All the blue ones for Grace,” Matt said. “We get the reds and greens.”

Grace almost smiled.

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 04.09.2010

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