The day started as it always did. The dutiful alarm clock, after 30 years of service,
executed its function with ease. “They don’t make things like they did. Not anymore”, the
resident of 130 Rosewood Street would tell you, shaking her head solemnly as though she had
participated in the production of alarm clocks herself. Like most elderly people, she was an early
riser. And like most elderly people, she also didn’t have much to do.
The alarm blared like it did every morning, 7 o’clock, on the dot. She’d wake up slowly
(arthritis) and make her way into the bathroom. Brush teeth, take medicine, brush her hair, and
whatever else one might do in a bathroom at 7 in the morning. She’d come out ready for a filled
day of menial activities and a moderate amount of pain (“with the amount of pills I take? I would
expect a horse wouldn’t feel a lot of pain either”, she’d say).
Of course, just because she was past a certain age (that’s all I’m allowed to comment on
the matter), it doesn’t mean she had lost the somewhat vain streak she had cultivated in her
youth. Oh, how beautiful she had been. She’d remember how boys would fight for her attention
in high school. Pep rallies, school games, dances, prom, graduation, she was never alone. Even
had her fair share of summer flings. Yes, she was quite a hit. Though, she would never tell you,
too uncoordinated to be a cheerleader. Now, she looked at herself in the mirror and saw someone
she could barely recognize, almost as though she was looking at a memory. The passage of time
was apparent. Lines adorned her once smooth forehead, and crow's feet grew each day more on
the corner of her eyes.
She eventually settled down (with a very handsome fellow, she’d like you to know) and
they were very happy. She started her career as a telephone operator fresh out of high school, and
maintained the same position until the day technology had surpassed her and her services were
no longer needed. She would sit at the same desk, eat at the same time, wear the same
headphones, say the same things (“one moment, please!”), and go home. She didn’t mind it,
however. Quite the contrary, actually. She liked the stability and comfort a routine brought her.
Maybe that’s why, even after all these years, she still did the same things. Every. Single. Day.
After the only career she was qualified for was brutally terminated (though you couldn’t
quite say she never saw it coming. She knew technology would catch up one day, hence her
resentment of anything more complex than a television), she spent her time being a devoted
mother and wife. She would wash the dishes, do the laundry, cook breakfast, lunch and dinner,
and then she would do it all again the next day.
She had two beautiful boys, who grew up to be very successful men. They were never
disrespectful and they all had a great relationship. As years passed, they became, how to put it...
Well, distanced. At first, they would always call, and they would even visit with a certain
frequency. She’d always ask the same questions. “How’s work? How are the children? How
have you been? How’s the wife?” etc. As time went by, the calls and the visits became a rare
occurrence. Though she never lost hope today might be the day they’d unexpectedly drop by, or
maybe give her a call. One day, she thought.
Everyday, she’d neatly tie her white, platinum hair into a bun, and make her way
downstairs. Slowly. Truthfully, she had been thinking about buying one of those elevators that
take the elderly and disabled safely and effortlessly down the stairs. She’d shake her head to
disperse such thoughts as soon as she had them (“they took your job, you’re gonna let those
bastards take your mobility, too?”). Having safely arrived at the ground floor, she’d walk
towards the kitchen, grabbing onto whatever was in the way to lend her the balance she required.
She’d eat the same breakfast she always had, for as long as she could remember. A glass of milk,
an egg (sunny side up, please and thank you), and one single toast to dip in the yolk. After
eating, she’d make her way towards the living room, passing by the mantle with pictures and
mementos that seemed oh, so far away. She’d smile fondly and think to herself; “one day”.
After reaching the living room, this particular woman would sit down and watch the
news, a way to ward off the overwhelming silence, the only other inhabitant of that house. She
would shake her head, sigh, and deliver snarky comments to emptiness, maybe chuckle at her
own jokes once or twice. After the news report was over, she’d turn on some music on the old
record player, and slowly make her way to the table, and solve the crossword puzzle from an old
magazine she had (“Gotta stay sharp. Your body is gone, your mind can’t go as well”). She’d
struggle with one word or another (and if she was really keen, she’d even dust off some old
encyclopedia she kept nearby) but ultimately, she’d almost always be able to finish the whole
thing. It might seem silly, but it would fill her with pride, an assurance that she was still capable
of taking care of herself (“And they wanted to put me in a home. Ha, so silly. Over my dead
body”, she’d often sneer). She’d amend her puzzle solving to some light reading, catching up on
the latest trends and Hollywood scandals (latest here is used with a certain generosity, most of
the magazines she had were more than a year old). After all this, she’d look up and it’d be 11:30.
Time for lunch.
She wasn’t as strict with her lunch as she was with her breakfast. She would open her
fridge and work with what she had, though undoubtedly the recipes she’d use would have been
so overdone that the books that contained them collected dust inside dark drawers. If the weather
of the day allowed it, she would go to her backyard and work on her award winning roses. If it
was too cold, she’d get some knitting done with a mug of hot cocoa and exactly 4 marshmallows
by her side. After a lot of weeding, pruning, fertilizing, planting, and watering, she’d be done,
and then she’d go around to the front of the house and do the same in the front yard. The sun was
often cruel and unforgiving, she felt its power even under a wide brimmed hat. The cold rubber
glove dragging across her jaded forehead was always welcome. She liked the work. Anything to
keep herself busy. The familiar neighbourhood would provide her some comfort. She knew the
neighbours and the houses, though they never came around either. It also gave her the
opportunity to look at the cars coming up and down the street. One day.
After backbreaking work in the scalding sun, some fresh, ice cold lemonade was in order.
Her bones ached with each squeeze, but since the lemons came straight out of the fridge, their
smooth icy texture was also somewhat soothing. She’d make her way to the two armchairs in
front of a wide window that looked outside the house.
There, she sits on the perfectly placed, comfortably cushioned chair on the right, and
waits. On the floor, in front of her, lies her dead body, which has been decomposing for weeks.
She patiently watches, looking at passersby who are entirely too busy in their own world to pay
attention to hers. One day, but certainly not today.