After Martha died, he had not been able to do anything. All he could do was to mope around the house, picking up random little trinkets which meant little but which now seemed to be haunted by the aura of Martha. He had been wearing the same pair of socks for two weeks now and he didn't care. He didn't care that the house was stinking of the rotting garbage, he didn't care that he was eating expired canned food. He didn't care that his phone has been ringing off the hook full of concerned voice messages from Tom and Jacqueline both worried that their aging father was spiraling into depression or worse, madness. What do they know? He wanted nothing to do with them. Their nagging concern and the way they looked at him as if he was a sickness they wanted to put away forever so that they could carry on with their busy lives.
He had always worried that Martha would go before him. He had tried to make Martha promise that she would die after he did. Maybe, he was being selfish, but from the way his world was rapidly falling apart right now, he could see how Martha would hold it all up, like the way she always did, like the way he could not. Martha would not let herself sink into a shit pit the way he was letting himself drown. He kept running this thought over and over in his head, if only he had Martha, he would not be in such a state. If only Martha were here to tell him what to do to put his life back together, the life which now seemed to have a gigantic black hole which nothing filled. Martha always knew what to do, she always told him things would be alright in the end, and she had always been right. But now, he didn't know. Would things be alright? Would things ever be alright again?
These questions were ignored whenever they floated up like bad smells along with the sound of the doorbell. It was Tom or Jacqueline no doubt. How he had loved them when they were little, carrying them on each shoulder, hearing their squeals of delight. But now, they squealed nightmarishly at him and their guilt and obligation were as obvious as their once-upon-a- time-delight. He was an old man, abandoned and afraid. Yes, afraid. Too frightened even to end it all off by leaving the gas running or jumping off a bridge. Too afraid even to mouth words like "Fuck." Tom had cursed him when he refused to open the door for the seventeenth time. "Fuck you dad. If that's the way you want it." It was followed by angry footsteps of Tom leaving frustrated. He had wanted to run after his son and to call him back to save him, but he was too tired. Besides, it was Martha who always saved him.
Nights were the worst. The bed was so empty and cold, the room so silent that he had to sleep in the couch in the living room with the T.V turned on. And still he could not sleep. He tried listening to music, good old songs which used to soothe his vexed spirits but now everything seemed to lack Martha. Martha hated that song or Martha used to sing along to that song as she washed the dishes. Martha always loved music. Now there was no Martha, and it was unbelievably surreal how things seemed normal everywhere else. Only his grief seemed real. He wanted to run screaming onto the streets that his wife was dead, she was no more, she no longer existed, how dare anyone even be happy, how could anyone have that right when he was in such misery?
He did not know how he spent those days just after Martha's death. Probably he was living like an animal or a barely conscious beast, something vile and lowly on the food chain. But Tom and Jacqueline broke the lock to his door eventually. He saw their horrified faces when they burst upon his living condition and could not hide his amusement at the extent of their horror. Jacqueline had gasped an "Oh my God" and Tom merely stared at the place stunned.
"Dad, you made yourself live in a stink hole. Do you think mum would have wanted this?" Tom was always quick to reprimand, he always reacted in anger.
"It's mum's funeral tomorrow, what do you want us to do?" Such a simple question, but he didn't have an answer to give.
Together Tom and Jacqueline had dragged him from his stinking pedestal and washed him. They tried to clean the place, but even they could not stand the stink. They called for professional cleaning service. To them, everything had a solution.
In the car on the way to Martha's funeral, everyone said little. He had not spoken a word to Tom or Jacqueline ever since the night in the hospital when he had told them they had arrived too late. Their mum had died even when she was in the ambulance. He hated them then. He hated how he was the only one to witness her passing, how he had to shoulder the grief. How they could weep with abandonment which was laced with a tinge of relief. She had died quickly and easily, nothing of the long dragged our battle which wore out the people around the dying who cared. Martha never troubled anyone in life and she did not trouble anyone in death.
They arrived at the cemetery. At the cemetery gates, Tom and Jacqueline stopped to get roses from a grim-faced lady. As they were bargaining with the woman, he saw a little boy across the street with a bunch of balloons.
"Are they for sale?"
The little boy looked at him suspiciously. "My dad bought them for me."
"Will you let me have one?"
The little boy looked thoughtful for a moment then his face lit up, "will you give me a dollar?"
"Sure." He fished for an old bill and took a red balloon from the boy.
Tom and Jacqueline looked at him funny when he walked towards them with a red balloon but said nothing. When you are the one in grief, you have the license to be inexplicble and what may seem inappropriate for someone else is infinitely excusable for the most grieved.
He went through the service obediently doing as he was told by the dry priest who muttered a bunch of unimportant religious nonsense. When it came time for the people to offer their roses and little parting gifts and kisses. He gave thanks for a beautiful life he shared with Martha and let the balloon go. He watched it float above the trees and high into the air. Past the narrow mouth of the tall buildings, into the infinite belly of the sky which stretched on and on and he thought on his love for Martha.
He had always worried that Martha would go before him. He had tried to make Martha promise that she would die after he did. Maybe, he was being selfish, but from the way his world was rapidly falling apart right now, he could see how Martha would hold it all up, like the way she always did, like the way he could not. Martha would not let herself sink into a shit pit the way he was letting himself drown. He kept running this thought over and over in his head, if only he had Martha, he would not be in such a state. If only Martha were here to tell him what to do to put his life back together, the life which now seemed to have a gigantic black hole which nothing filled. Martha always knew what to do, she always told him things would be alright in the end, and she had always been right. But now, he didn't know. Would things be alright? Would things ever be alright again?
These questions were ignored whenever they floated up like bad smells along with the sound of the doorbell. It was Tom or Jacqueline no doubt. How he had loved them when they were little, carrying them on each shoulder, hearing their squeals of delight. But now, they squealed nightmarishly at him and their guilt and obligation were as obvious as their once-upon-a- time-delight. He was an old man, abandoned and afraid. Yes, afraid. Too frightened even to end it all off by leaving the gas running or jumping off a bridge. Too afraid even to mouth words like "Fuck." Tom had cursed him when he refused to open the door for the seventeenth time. "Fuck you dad. If that's the way you want it." It was followed by angry footsteps of Tom leaving frustrated. He had wanted to run after his son and to call him back to save him, but he was too tired. Besides, it was Martha who always saved him.
Nights were the worst. The bed was so empty and cold, the room so silent that he had to sleep in the couch in the living room with the T.V turned on. And still he could not sleep. He tried listening to music, good old songs which used to soothe his vexed spirits but now everything seemed to lack Martha. Martha hated that song or Martha used to sing along to that song as she washed the dishes. Martha always loved music. Now there was no Martha, and it was unbelievably surreal how things seemed normal everywhere else. Only his grief seemed real. He wanted to run screaming onto the streets that his wife was dead, she was no more, she no longer existed, how dare anyone even be happy, how could anyone have that right when he was in such misery?
He did not know how he spent those days just after Martha's death. Probably he was living like an animal or a barely conscious beast, something vile and lowly on the food chain. But Tom and Jacqueline broke the lock to his door eventually. He saw their horrified faces when they burst upon his living condition and could not hide his amusement at the extent of their horror. Jacqueline had gasped an "Oh my God" and Tom merely stared at the place stunned.
"Dad, you made yourself live in a stink hole. Do you think mum would have wanted this?" Tom was always quick to reprimand, he always reacted in anger.
"It's mum's funeral tomorrow, what do you want us to do?" Such a simple question, but he didn't have an answer to give.
Together Tom and Jacqueline had dragged him from his stinking pedestal and washed him. They tried to clean the place, but even they could not stand the stink. They called for professional cleaning service. To them, everything had a solution.
In the car on the way to Martha's funeral, everyone said little. He had not spoken a word to Tom or Jacqueline ever since the night in the hospital when he had told them they had arrived too late. Their mum had died even when she was in the ambulance. He hated them then. He hated how he was the only one to witness her passing, how he had to shoulder the grief. How they could weep with abandonment which was laced with a tinge of relief. She had died quickly and easily, nothing of the long dragged our battle which wore out the people around the dying who cared. Martha never troubled anyone in life and she did not trouble anyone in death.
They arrived at the cemetery. At the cemetery gates, Tom and Jacqueline stopped to get roses from a grim-faced lady. As they were bargaining with the woman, he saw a little boy across the street with a bunch of balloons.
"Are they for sale?"
The little boy looked at him suspiciously. "My dad bought them for me."
"Will you let me have one?"
The little boy looked thoughtful for a moment then his face lit up, "will you give me a dollar?"
"Sure." He fished for an old bill and took a red balloon from the boy.
Tom and Jacqueline looked at him funny when he walked towards them with a red balloon but said nothing. When you are the one in grief, you have the license to be inexplicble and what may seem inappropriate for someone else is infinitely excusable for the most grieved.
He went through the service obediently doing as he was told by the dry priest who muttered a bunch of unimportant religious nonsense. When it came time for the people to offer their roses and little parting gifts and kisses. He gave thanks for a beautiful life he shared with Martha and let the balloon go. He watched it float above the trees and high into the air. Past the narrow mouth of the tall buildings, into the infinite belly of the sky which stretched on and on and he thought on his love for Martha.
posted by Nippy at 1:16 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home