By Meagan Frank (October/Bad Luck/Compass)
An old man sits in his wheel chair. He faces the same window he has faced for the last four months: the sunset window. A quiet tear rolls down his face.
____________________________________________
When George arrived at the Pleasant Oaks nursing home nearly a year ago, he didn’t particularly enjoy the view. There were the windows of the sitting room that reminded him what he’d left behind, and then there were the eyes of the residents. No one wanted to let him see in, and the eyes he could see… they terrified him.
The fireplace and aquarium were safer. Fire and water had always pleased him, and the earth and sky of the outside view was unnerving. He had come in late October, and the grey skies, littered by the silhouettes of leafless trees, only added to his depression.
He didn’t want to be there.
By the turn of the year, he had made it his resolution to at least window-gaze each day and, when he found the sunset window in mid-July, he became a permanent part of the window dressing.
It had been Henry’s spot first, but Henry was a generous soul.
“Looks like a steamy one out there, doesn’t it?” Henry asked toward the window.
Unsure whether the comment was meant for him, George quietly responded, “Sure does.”
“Reminds me of lightning bugs and bonfires. What about you?”
No one had directed an intimate line of questioning toward George in so long, he wasn’t sure how to respond.
“Uh, I guess it reminds me of rope-swingin’ into the lake. I used to love that as a boy.”
“Ah, rope-swingin’,” Henry said thoughtfully, “I haven’t thought about that in years... I only did it once. The year I had to live on my uncle’s farm in northern Wisconsin. Man. That was the year I just about lost everything.” Henry paused, “You wanna’ hear a story?”
Filling up with something he never thought he would feel again, George nodded with encouragement.
“This one’s a doozy,” Henry started. “I went to live on my uncle’s farm when I was twelve years old. My parents couldn’t handle me, and they thought a year of hard farm work would straighten me up. I took to it real well. I loved the animals, and the early mornings and the couple hours on the weekends when they let me go fishin’. Oh, and then there was Marilyn. She was the neighbor girl I loved before I knew that was what I was doin’.” Henry stayed turned toward the window for the entire recollection, and George found himself gazing there too.
He pictured young Henry chasing the pretty-faced Marilyn into the shoulder-high corn fields while the bird-sized mosquitoes buzzed in their ears as they kissed. He could almost smell the growing crops and hear the commanding call of a hardened uncle. George loved every syllable of Henry’s story.
Each day at the sunset window Henry would come up with other fantastical word-woven pictures and George would let the images materialize in his mind. He pictured Henry waking up panicked and then wandering with a compass through the French countryside to find his platoon. George felt like a guest at Henry’s lavish wedding to the Governor’s daughter, and it felt like he was the one holding each of Henry’s four children as they were born.
Then one day last week, George spent the day at the sunset window by himself. He looked out at the fall colors and the squirrel games, but there really wasn’t anything to see.
A hand gently rested on his shoulder, “George, we have some sad news to tell you. Henry has had a bit of bad luck, and he won’t be coming back to the window today.”
George looked up at the concerned eyes of the young orderly and said, “What happened? Is he okay?”
“I’m afraid he’s not okay,” she struggled to say, “he tried to wheel himself to breakfast this morning, and he wheeled right into an open staircase. He fell all the way to the bottom. We are not sure he’s going to make it.”
George sat puzzled. “How does he wheel into an open staircase? It doesn’t make sense to me.”
“Oh, George, honey. He couldn’t see it. Henry has been blind since childhood. Didn’t you know that?”
Slowly shaking his head, “No…I didn’t know that.”
For the rest of the day, George sat watching out the window for a reason to feel better. When the fall sun began to set behind the fire-colored leaves, he noticed the flock of geese rising in the background to shape themselves above the horizon. His heart rested in that moment, and he knew that Henry was gone.
____________________________________________
He said his goodbyes this morning, and now the silent window stares back at him. George hardly notices the arrival of the new resident who has quietly wheeled himself into Henry’s old spot. Sadness and silence are overwhelming companions for the pair of window-gazers.
George glances in the direction of the new arrival, and he cannot help but to think of his friend.
He turns more directly to the man and says, “It’s a brisk one out there today, don’t ya’ think? It reminds me of trick-or-treating and leaf piles. How about you?”
An old man sits in his wheel chair. He faces the same window he has faced for the last four months: the sunset window. A quiet tear rolls down his face.
____________________________________________
When George arrived at the Pleasant Oaks nursing home nearly a year ago, he didn’t particularly enjoy the view. There were the windows of the sitting room that reminded him what he’d left behind, and then there were the eyes of the residents. No one wanted to let him see in, and the eyes he could see… they terrified him.
The fireplace and aquarium were safer. Fire and water had always pleased him, and the earth and sky of the outside view was unnerving. He had come in late October, and the grey skies, littered by the silhouettes of leafless trees, only added to his depression.
He didn’t want to be there.
By the turn of the year, he had made it his resolution to at least window-gaze each day and, when he found the sunset window in mid-July, he became a permanent part of the window dressing.
It had been Henry’s spot first, but Henry was a generous soul.
“Looks like a steamy one out there, doesn’t it?” Henry asked toward the window.
Unsure whether the comment was meant for him, George quietly responded, “Sure does.”
“Reminds me of lightning bugs and bonfires. What about you?”
No one had directed an intimate line of questioning toward George in so long, he wasn’t sure how to respond.
“Uh, I guess it reminds me of rope-swingin’ into the lake. I used to love that as a boy.”
“Ah, rope-swingin’,” Henry said thoughtfully, “I haven’t thought about that in years... I only did it once. The year I had to live on my uncle’s farm in northern Wisconsin. Man. That was the year I just about lost everything.” Henry paused, “You wanna’ hear a story?”
Filling up with something he never thought he would feel again, George nodded with encouragement.
“This one’s a doozy,” Henry started. “I went to live on my uncle’s farm when I was twelve years old. My parents couldn’t handle me, and they thought a year of hard farm work would straighten me up. I took to it real well. I loved the animals, and the early mornings and the couple hours on the weekends when they let me go fishin’. Oh, and then there was Marilyn. She was the neighbor girl I loved before I knew that was what I was doin’.” Henry stayed turned toward the window for the entire recollection, and George found himself gazing there too.
He pictured young Henry chasing the pretty-faced Marilyn into the shoulder-high corn fields while the bird-sized mosquitoes buzzed in their ears as they kissed. He could almost smell the growing crops and hear the commanding call of a hardened uncle. George loved every syllable of Henry’s story.
Each day at the sunset window Henry would come up with other fantastical word-woven pictures and George would let the images materialize in his mind. He pictured Henry waking up panicked and then wandering with a compass through the French countryside to find his platoon. George felt like a guest at Henry’s lavish wedding to the Governor’s daughter, and it felt like he was the one holding each of Henry’s four children as they were born.
Then one day last week, George spent the day at the sunset window by himself. He looked out at the fall colors and the squirrel games, but there really wasn’t anything to see.
A hand gently rested on his shoulder, “George, we have some sad news to tell you. Henry has had a bit of bad luck, and he won’t be coming back to the window today.”
George looked up at the concerned eyes of the young orderly and said, “What happened? Is he okay?”
“I’m afraid he’s not okay,” she struggled to say, “he tried to wheel himself to breakfast this morning, and he wheeled right into an open staircase. He fell all the way to the bottom. We are not sure he’s going to make it.”
George sat puzzled. “How does he wheel into an open staircase? It doesn’t make sense to me.”
“Oh, George, honey. He couldn’t see it. Henry has been blind since childhood. Didn’t you know that?”
Slowly shaking his head, “No…I didn’t know that.”
For the rest of the day, George sat watching out the window for a reason to feel better. When the fall sun began to set behind the fire-colored leaves, he noticed the flock of geese rising in the background to shape themselves above the horizon. His heart rested in that moment, and he knew that Henry was gone.
____________________________________________
He said his goodbyes this morning, and now the silent window stares back at him. George hardly notices the arrival of the new resident who has quietly wheeled himself into Henry’s old spot. Sadness and silence are overwhelming companions for the pair of window-gazers.
George glances in the direction of the new arrival, and he cannot help but to think of his friend.
He turns more directly to the man and says, “It’s a brisk one out there today, don’t ya’ think? It reminds me of trick-or-treating and leaf piles. How about you?”
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