Being and Nonbeing

I am, he thought, putting down his pen.

His son brought him his pants hanging by their suspenders on a peg by the door.
_Wear these, Poppa. You’ll be less conspicuous. His underpants were red, his over pants were the colour of the sky in May, gray. It was raining.

_Never mind, he said closing the door. I couldn’t hear the rain again.

_Could you help me find my slippers. Have you seen my turpentine? I have some brushes could stand some cleaning.

_You’re a writer, not? Dad, We’ve locked up the turpentine. Which slippers do you want?

_ The ones from Eatons.
_They’ve gone out of business. Do you own a pair of slippers?

_I guess. I’m wearing a pair that will do. See how neatly they fit the prosthesis? Larry signed them for me, so I could always remember the pair I liked.

_Larry signed your slippers?

_No, no, let’s try  a little harder. He signed my metal leg, my peg, the part my stump fits into. You see how nicely they fit?
_You just have one.
_Right, right. My left leg to keep it straight. He signed the socket.
Here let me show you.
_It’s OK Poppa, you’ve showed me before. I was just checking in. Have you got your hearing aids? I know how much you enjoy breathing!” 

They both laugh, inside joke. He had nearly died a year ago. His time in hospital had marked him. He was certain they bungled more than one or two things. His lips were crooked, which they had not been BEFORE he nearly died. He put on his pants, his son offered him his arm to keep him from tumbling. 

_Well I better go. His Dad had forgotten they had planned a trip to the barber’s but he didn’t have enough hair for the visit to be more than social. 

_Sure thing! I’ve got some writing to do. Give me some warning I’ll be wearing my pants,  so you can bring the kids next time. 

Richard was beginning to think it might be time to read to his father. Or cause his father to be read to. Nah, he could still do it, at least until his Dad got that old man odour, he picked up in the hallways.  Levi Lodge, what a name. Leviticus, Leviathan, jeans. He’d have to look that up, he  thought, after his hybrid began to hum. 










This entry was posted in ARCHIVES, Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink. Trackbacks are closed, but you can post a comment.

Post a Comment

Your email is never published nor shared. Required fields are marked *


You may use these HTML tags and attributes: <a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <s> <strike> <strong>



Blog Subscription

To receive notification of new articles.