Home, Sweet Home

16 October 2011

HOME, SWEET HOME

I prefer to think of myself as a young man, not that I want to be young again.  I have dragged myself some two hundred yards away from home to sit on a bench (part wet – it has been raining), and I am contemplating the next step – do I cross the road or don’t I?

I don’t want to be young again, and I smile at the memory.  All limbs alive, my mind astir with flashing images, whereas now … I fondle my stick and lift my legs carefully.  Sometimes  I speculate just where I will die,  in my bed, while walking abroad, while sitting …

“Can I get you something?”

She is young, long black hair tossed over one shoulder, white apron, trim slacks.  I had not realized I was sitting at the end table of the corner café.

“Well …” this by way of deliberation, of hiding my confusion, of pretending to be deep in thought,  “ would you have a café latte?”

Why would I call it café latte, when white coffee would do?   The girl would not know …

“Sugar?”  the girl asks.

“No … no thank you.”

The girl walks away, back into the interior of the café. I review the conversation.   Why can’t I be in control of what I want to do, of what I think, of what I say – at least the last!   I was such a clever little boy, quick thinker, bon mots always at the ready.  But now – by the time I have reconstructed what I had proposed to say, I have forgotten why I wanted to say it. 

The  girl reappears, carrying in one hand a cup and saucer and a plate with a slice of raisin cake.

I raise my eye brows.

 “On the house!” she says.

I stay silent, my mind choosing between ‘Thank you …’ and ‘You shouldn’t have,,,’ and ‘How nice!’ When I look up to thank the girl, she is gone again, It serves me right! This is my fate to live in silence, maybe to smile in gratitude but not to voice, to cleverly enunciate sweet words of thanks.  Gone are the days when I would shine in repartee or after dinner speeches,

I raise my cup.  The coffee is …just right, strong.  I will not let the cup go.  I sip and sip again, my tongue playing with the hot drink.  Then I sit back and close my eyes, and when I open them again, there is the girl, polishing the adjacent table. She is young, black hair tossed over one shoulder… but there is something else, something I am trying to remember, something I recall when I succeeded, when I found the right words.  I can see inquisitive eyes, frowns, mouths  half open; a group of students,  half a dozen, maybe ten, and I say:  “Write! Scribble!  Sentences … half sentences…just write!”

The girl looks up from polishing the table.

“You don’t remember me … do you?  I was in your short story class!”