Children

I'm tired. My bones are weary. What am I doing here? What happened to my home? My home. Mine! How I miss it. From day to day i sit in this chair. Sometimes they tie me to it. They say, It's because I'm a bad girl. Me? A "bad girl"? How can I be a "bad girl" at eighty-five? They call me "senile." I think they are senile. Not me. What happened to my family? My husband? My beautiful, beautiful husband. How I loved him. I was happy with him. We were happy together. He's gone now. They won't tell me but I know he's dead. So aren't I. The memories hurt the most. People laughing, singing, dancing. Music of the old world. There is no music, no singing, no dancing now. Only the groans and moans of the surrounding old. Damn it! Damn them all! I hate them. I walk and I pace. Pace and walk. That is all that is left for me. Back and forth. Back and forth. A thousand empty eyes watching. A lonely prisoner's cell. There is nothing to do. Nurses. Empty non-smiles. Meanlingless words. Time for Bingo. Once I had a home. Children to raise. I worked in a factory. But that is in the past now. Now, there is only the waiting. Waiting for my family to come and visit. To put a clean dress on me. To comb my hair. Talk baby talk to me. They were once my babies, now I am theirs. They talk around me. Never to me. Don't they know I am alive? They love me. So they say. They love me so much I guess that's why I am here. They say everything will be fine when I get well. I only wish someone would ask them. When does an eighty-five year old woman get well? It's been a long hard time. Some of my friends have left. But never with their families. I guess they weren't well enough to go home. When will I be? If ever.I wrote this a while back when I was younger. I also made it into a one act play. I think it could stand some editing, but I don't know were to start. Any comments welcomed. Written November 16th, 2001 © on Nov 16 2001 05:51 AM PST   0 • 1