Whispered In The Wind

Whispered In The Wind
Just a fairy blowing in the wind, singing tales to the west wind

Friday, October 28, 2011

We'll Meet Again

 -When I grow up I want to be an old person.It is amazing how much of life..doesn't need any fiction added to it.-

We visited him today. He had lost weight and his skin was wrinkled  and pulled across his bones. His long gaunt hands were colored with purple veins. His eyes were bright, a cover of fog touching them. He was in the hospital, contained by white walls and smooth tile. He clutched a red pen in his hand, a note book of drawings at his side. When we walked in I clasped his old hand and he called us his family. He showed us paintings he was turning into place mats, still a business man with his gears turning. He said he went broke but he's turned out all right. He always says that. We always laugh. 

I told him that every morning when I wake up, in the room he used to sleep in the first thing I see is his painting of the birds and the sea. He told me those birds could be any bird I wanted them to be. They are. Sometimes I call them my silly geese, other days they are my swans. When he signed his name on that painting he added a little flag to the sail boat. I remember that every morning..what use is a boat without a proper sail? He's no different today.

He tells us about World War Two and his little white cap. He says everyone steals money. Everyone is a thief. But I know he loves them anyways. He talks about Carlos, who recently choked on his own vomit and died. He talks about how drunk Carlos could get. But when I think of Carlos, I think of the way he smiled shyly and always forgot my dog's name. He told me he had a dog once. The way Carlos said it, I know that dog was much more than a dog. I miss that old drunk with his greasy hair.

Sometimes I feel like I'm grasping at time, desperate to save these moments....because if I don't who will? He says no one calls and we write our number on a whiteboard and we ask if they'll let him hang his paintings on the wall. He says today the nurse said he could now. But his best painting is him. Every story is stretched across his forehead and his fingers are long like paintbrushes.

Last time I saw him, he demanded to know if the kids at school know how beautiful I am. I smiled.  But does he know how beautiful he looks to me right now? I wish I could bottle each of his queer funny sentences, his stories, and hang them from the ceiling of my room. When we leave he begins to sing in his croaky voice

"We'll meet again..
We join in, out of tune, smiling, filling the white hospital with loud flat notes..
"Don't know where, don't know when, but I know we'll meet again some sunny day."
See you then, Peter.

"I want warm summer nights, to lie in a hammock, staring at the stars, telling you stories. "

"I want warm summer nights, to lie in a hammock, staring at the stars, telling you stories. "
"When asked not to make waves, I just smiled and said, don't worry this is just a ripple"