A "Fly on the wall" observes......

Entry number 23748 as recorded by Fly "Buzz ZK471"

 

Hanging on to the last grain of sand in the hourglass, the morning begins like the morning before, and the morning before that, and the morning before that. As if operated by a remote control, she pulls back the drapes, turns on the kettle, and feeds the cat.     The sun is putting on a valiant effort to break through the dark grey clouds, heavily ladened with the threat of rain. Teacup in hand, she stands infront of the bay window. Wearing her old canary yellow bathrobe now three sizes too big, her white hair ruffled, and her alabaster white feet barely showing; she seems more like a new sprung chick than a seasoned human being.

 

She takes another sip of the milky tea, then lets out a resigned sigh: "How all the years did fly by". As if from another planet, one far, far away, another jet takes off across the dismal sky.

The cat wants out after having devoured his morning menu, the washing needs doing, the roses pruning, and her Walter's grave, a tidy-up. Slowly, but surely, and with much precision, she makes the bed, combs her hair, brushes her teeth, then choose what to wear.

 

Standing infront of the hallway mirror, she begins a conversation: "Mirror, mirror, on the wall, all those years, months, weeks and hours, what happened to them all?" She sighs then continues: "What I see, I know is supposed to be me, but all I can see, is an old weathered woman, yes, faded remnants of what used to be me." The mirror is cold, silent and shallow, it offers no words, no comfort, no wisdom. What she sees, is an unfortunate collision, of that which was, that which is, and that, which could have been.

 

"Let me tell you this", she says to the mirror, "I'm still me, and that's all there is".

 

A smirk spreads across her pale and weathered face, but in her eyes there is fire, infused with flecks of grace. Suddenly she hurries back into her bedroom, throws open the wardrobe door, pulls out a box marked "Walter" and throws it on the floor.  "There you are!" she says holding up a colourful scarf, "I thought I lost you down at the wharf!"

She drapes the scarf around her neck, then giggles: "Remember Walter, those really wild nights, those nights in Quebec?"

With a spring in her step, and Walter's scarf around her neck, she opens all her windows, pulls up all the dreary blinds, turns on the music, and does a little dance.

 

Who knows how many grains an hourglass contains, but for this old woman, one still remains.

 

Comment: Human beings are strange. Buzz ZK471