No Plot No Problem - 500 Words A Day
3/28/11
The picture of Mr. Pepperton jaunting carelessly across the slopping park lawn along the towering edge where the river rolls around the bridge and through the cityscape is revealed the morning fog of her cataract filled but clear green eyes. “Where am I?” comes the thought wavering behind the deep breath that signifies and end to dream land. It is daylight. The sound of a train horn, the rush of the forced air gas furnace through the vent in the floor and the squirming murmurs of her stomach, aching to be fed, Ms. Gaston Precidance is alive, again, and in bed.
The memories of a long lived life press around the room looking for the familiar edge of a door and or the softened tone of the walls painted in the years after the fire but before the quake. A pair of well worn slippers, a warm pink bathrobe with pockets and a silky tie, nestled on the inside to help keep it together, along with the photo of Pepperdog on the banks of Outlaw park paste this wide open room with a familiar, but very recently introduced, wash of a new time that has come. The crackle of cart wheels on a well oiled floor and stifled calls for assistance and or attention reintroduce her new home to her. The living will from now on, be assisted. GD is waking up. Again.
Her body feels relatively good. There is no jarring pain. No cough. It is not too hot and not too cold. While there is nothing to complain about, in these morning moments of present understanding, there is much to be observed. The remembering of Darla and Kevin lumbering her across town in the backseat of their vehicle curled between the few boxes of so few things casts a bright light on the sounds and sights of the morning in this new arena. It is like the first day at the office where you are hoping to fit in even though you don’t know where anything is.
“Fake it ‘til you make it”, the advice given so many moons ago still resonating as a way to cope with the un-fawned for and unexpected. A quick clap at the door and in comes the help. Clean shaven with concise eyes and a head full of hair. He smiles as she closes her eyes and rustles her tender hands through her triumphant hair.
“Good morning, good morning, its great to wake up late, good morning, good morning to you.” Sebastian slightly sings to his newest needer of time and attention. As the shadows of her memories carve a raft around her room she is aware of her lack of awareness which means she’s not as far gone as she one day will be. In this gentle, silent transition from living on the Southeast part of town in the cunning buttery yellow craftsman she spent caring for year after year there is a generous understanding that times have changed this week. While the mind behind her eyes waxes and wanes through the change in routine he makes his way into her room, raising the level of light, glancing over his shoulder as the very settled occupants make their way to the cafeteria. “Hey Laaaaaddddyyyyy” Mr. Vincent wallows into her room with a crafty look in his wide eyed smile. A new arrival. Someone to get to know.
As the gentle waves of gentleman splay around the halls GD rubs her eyes open, fondly remembering a time when she really cared how she appeared to strangers or company – stuttered by an awareness that now, lipstick free, hair uncombed, a bra less morning in a sun filled sky left her sincerely contented. The grace of age having arrived unexpectedly the desire to be attractive enough abated and cured. Not to say she didn’t want to feel good. Just to say that she did feel good, even in the gaping morning light.