Rita lays in bed, memories of younger days running through her head, she can’t get up, so reminisces to help the time go by, tears in her eyes as she roles back the years. She is waiting to be got up washed and dressed, Carers are late again causing her distress. Every day it is the same, on her own all night long no water no food feeling so lame. she rues the day she got old, the way she must live and she feels the cold. Carers come and knock the door, she wishes she could tell them she doesn’t need them anymore. Short of time, they can’t stay too long, with the system something must be wrong. Strip wash as quick as they can, is this how you would treat your gran. Cup of tea, no food, no time, it would be a crime. Left on her own, with pendent and phone, in four walls that she calls home.
She looks forward to the next visit, which will be soon, but, no one appears at noon, hunger pangs griping her stomach, she dares not complain, she should be grateful the morning people came. Three o’clock, they are late again sandwich and tea, she wishes they would stay, she tries a plea, they are off as soon as they came, short of staff and travelling again.
Last visit of the day, microwaved dinner on the tray, she is put to bed at eight o’clock, they can’t do it any other way, no matter how much she pays, she still must look forward to short lonely days. Night time is long, sleep is sporadic, she reflects on her life and her husband deceased who would have showered her at least. She longs to be with him, where ever he is, he’s truely missed.
Morning strikes and sunbeams drift in to the room. Carers knock at eight o’clock, they are early to put on her socks. They let themselves in and poke their head in on Rita hoping to greet her. There is no answer, they start to stare, her worn out body is in bed, but the spirit has fled, all they could do is stand and stare wishing they were not there. Rita’s soul stands in the room looking down like the moon seeing the reactions of those who care, now they have come early and she is not there.
©All rights reserved Mark Symmonds 2017
Rhythm of the Ink 