Several years ago I took an online course called F2K.
It was free and I thought, ah, what the hell.
I met many wonderful (and not so wonderful) people there, WC being one of the gems.
We had many assignments regarding the craft of fiction.
Some exercises were fun while others would make you wish you never signed up.
I mention this because I found a post I did for F2K when we were working on point of view (POV). I wrote this post from the viewpoint of my father on the day we moved him from his house to the assisted living facility.
It was a brutal day for me emotionally so I really can’t imagine what it must have been like for him.
That day, I know he still had some cookies left.
Maybe that’s what made it so damn heartbreaking.
I remember telling myself, “you’re doing it for him, Michael–you’re doing it for him…”
It still felt wrong to me but I knew there was really no other way.
A word to the wise: this is not a real uplifting post.
It was Saturday, my favorite day of the week.
Today, however, would be an exception.
A cold and steady rain was falling and it somehow made my heart even sadder.
I was leaving my home of fifty years and I must say it was never my idea. It was all theirs.
My children had decided it was best that I live somewhere I could be safe, away from all dangers and open doors; away from the life I had once upon a time called my own.
They say I’m confused.
Maybe I am.
I forget things but doesn’t everyone now and then?
But I remember Saturday mornings, making good old-fashioned oatmeal on the stove before the kids got up out of bed. God, how I loved to do that!
I can still see the box, with the kindly gentleman on the label who always reminded me of George Washington, peering out at me from inside the darkened cabinet.
I guess those were simpler times uncomplicated by my forgetful and crumbling mind.
I could take care of myself then.
Now, no one thinks I can anymore and it makes me angry.
Today, I was just in the way; like I always am these days.
All I could do was watch as they loaded memory after memory into some big yellow truck that would take me far from this place that I still loved.
I remained quiet through most of this but was angry with myself for not having the strength left to just say no.
The grandfather clock in the hall just announced the hour.
I never liked the sound of the old man’s chimes but today they sound sweet and lovely as if to soothe the heart that’s breaking deep inside my chest.
Standing in my bedroom, I hear my son’s voice call to me from downstairs, “Dad, it’s time to go.”
As I wrap my trembling hands around the dark mahogany bedpost, for what will be the very last time, a solitary tear trickles down my worn and tired face because I could still remember just how good Saturdays used to be.