“He is fading past, I’m afraid.”
“The important thing is that he is not afraid.”
“Hmmm, I suppose. And he is always looking out the window?”
“Yes, every morning he asks to be positioned there. I’ve taken to feeding him there rather than move him.”
“He’s not becoming…difficult?”
“No, quite the contrary. He finds it so…peaceful, I guess you would say.”
“I wonder what he sees.”
“It can’t be much. His eyes are quite weak…”
The light catches you, Marie, so that I can see you with a clarity, la clarté, which these blurry old eyes had almost forgotten. Why does time do that? Why does age? Why can we not retain the sharpness of our senses? Use them to the full until that final gasp.
Even on clouded days, when the westerly wind blows in from the Channel, I see that light surrounding you. The memory remains so vivid.
That first day at Wissant, sanctified by the splendour of Typhonium, sharing visions, linking arms, trudging down the village road, spying the old gate, slinking down the path to the sea, the tide as low as the sinking moon, the sand, the night.
We wandered, my Marie, through our too short time.
Too short, my love.
A small offering in response to Jane Daugherty’s Microfiction Challenge # 5 The Door (La Porte by Henri Duhem.)