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ageless waltz

by Lauren Singer


Pain flooded through her soft, arthritic hands, wrinkled and aged. At ninety-three, she wondered if her eyes could still form tears, but, she was too tired to cry. It had been exactly a year since her husband died. Their wedding picture still stood on the top of her bureau. She remembered when her mother gave the frame to her, and how modern she thought it to be, with flowers engraved in the simple wood. Now, a frame like that could be bought for hundreds of dollars at an antique store in New England.
Her children hardly called anymore, her once young and thoughtful son and daughter were grandparents themselves, and the simple pleasure of once holding a baby, turned into a fear for them. She almost pretended that she lost her hearing so it wouldn’t hurt as much when she heard her relatives say, “No, no, Grandma shakes too much”; “Mom is too old to hold the baby”; “Go get her more depends, I don’t need any extra work.”
It was a hurtful and indescribable torture to know that she was a burden to her family. Everything seemed to be taken from her, her beloved husband, her friends, even her cat, whom she could no longer care for, and now, she couldn’t even care for herself. Once a week, a nurse would intrude into her house, say nothing to her, but roughly shove her into a bathtub, scrubbing hard and making her delicate skin peel. Naked, and humiliated, she wished for release, prayed to be young again. The nurse brought her groceries of soft, tasteless food, and sent a bill to her children, who would come over, go into her purse, and leave, rarely even making an effort to kiss her on the cheek. Her youngest granddaughter, at sixteen, would stop by sometimes, the only comfort of her incessantly long days.
But on days like these: lonely, bored, and immobile, the woman would think of nothing else but release. Release from her pain and anguish, and a chance to move freely, without the weight of her age.
The old woman stood up, taking at least three minutes to grasp the chairs handles and pull herself forward, and tottered over to her bureau, taking up the small framed-picture. She then made the two foot trek over to her bed, where she sat heavily down, and closed her eyes.
When she opened them she looked down at the photo which revealed a beautiful couple. The woman with long flowing red hair, crystal blue eyes, and creamy skin. The man, young and noble, dark features, but bestowing an innocence belying his stern facade.
She missed her wonderful husband, and as she stroked the picture with her long fingers, she wanted to let go. When she looked up from the yellowing picture, she saw him there. Saw him standing with his black suit, and hat. His eyes smiling, and she knew it was real, she would know his cologne anywhere. She stood up, and ran to him. She ran with the power of the twenty-two year old woman that she was in the picture. And when she looked down, she was that woman. The sad and lonely old woman was left lifeless on the bed.
He took her in his arms and kissed her cheek, and they danced, melting into the floor, into the room, into each other. As she turned to go, he took her hands and said, “No, it’s your time now.” And as she walked away, she walked with the knowledge, wisdom, and remembrance of her ninety-three years, and the grace, beauty, and love of the young woman she was now. She did not look back.


03/28/2003

Posted on 03/28/2003
Copyright © 2024 Lauren Singer

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Indigo Tempesta on 03/29/03 at 11:58 PM

absolutely incredible, lauren. i can't believe this. who are you? this is so incredible. thank you, lauren, for this. unable to describe what is alive in me now because of your poem, i will sit in my chair at home and embrace myself and my family and my friends with an untouchable sincerity and solemnity. thank you. .indi

Posted by Sarah Brookes on 04/09/03 at 09:03 PM

Wholly powerful stuff. Great read. Stunning images.

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