Sunday, March 19, 2023

 Rainy Day Musing 

         With a Touch of Truth


Violet was blue that Wednesday, a shade darker than she had been on Tuesday, perhaps less than she would be on Thursday. It had been like this for a while, every day she breathed a bit bleaker than the day before. She might have wondered why the days inside her mind were so grim, for outside the world was beautiful, the sun bright, the grass chartreuse, the sky cerulean, the wind but a mere breeze caressing her. Yet she did not wonder. She knew why her life was off-color. And that perhaps was the problem. . . or possibly a solution. Her intuitive nature had been a gift, she once thought. Maybe not. . . for now, for the first time, she had to live with a truth she understood from the inside out.


Violet had been in love once with a boy. He was funny, curious, and somewhat mischievous, but oh so lovingly so. He made her laugh. He made her cringe; she always was looking after him because he was headstrong. Headstrong! So, she bandaged his knees, bathed his fevers, and comforted him when disappointments set in, heavy weights that crushed him down. She did these things because she had adored the boy from the first day they met, and she was quite sure he had felt the same way for a while, maybe for a good, long while. But that was ages ago.


Now that Violet had reached the ripe old age of eighty-five, she had little left. She lived alone in a small apartment in a luxurious facility for seniors, lots of them, all of them residing in a parallel universe, a million miles away, figuratively if not literally, from those who had arrived after them, those who had been loved, as Violet had loved that little boy. The old folks did not speak of their losses; it likely hurt too much, but Violet knew the others shared heartaches similar to hers. “One need not be dead to be grieved after,” she wanted to shout sometimes, but didn’t, knowing her rant would fall on deaf ears. . .  or no ears at all. Besides, no one was listening. 


Violet’s senior counterparts, like she herself, spent their days remembering, gathering up memories in dried bouquets so fragile, the brittle sprays could disintegrate if one held on too long. So wrinkled hands like dead birds fell to empty laps and eyes blurred, the recollections set aside for another day. Minutes ticked by in a quiet so deep one might drown in it. Had the others, like Violet been hoping that today might be the day their past love would check in, stop by, say hello, give well wishes, flowers, candy, a hug? Or was that yesterday? They had hoped then too. They would tomorrow. Or would they?


How easy it is for the days, weeks, months, years even, to pass, waiting, anticipating, saddened to a depth one does not care anymore. Violet understood. And that is the truth. It took time, clear to the autumn of her life to understand but now she did. Caring, like hope were useless to her – different sides to one tarnished coin. She need not hold it or spend it; it was a throwaway, just like the love for a little boy.



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