I Remember You

For as long as I can remember I've written. I would find a scrap of paper and pencil and scratch away at it, a character, my day, my family, school. The bones of a story would magically appear on the crisp white page and I would read and reread it, changing, crossing out, rewriting, pulling out words from somewhere within my mind till they made sense. The bones of a story developed meat, nerves, sinew and a spine. It grew legs and arms, a mind of its own, and then I would ball it up and toss it away like it was not a living thing, as if it were not my made-up words to be treasured. But that was many, many years ago, so many years ago, my mind sometimes becomes groggy and forgetful. Oh, the mind can be a cruel thing to someone that forgets easily. 

          But something is amiss today. Strange things are happening around me. There is an unpleasant buzz in the room. People are whispering and talking behind stretched out hands. Their mouths are crinkled and their eyebrows are pushed together in worried scowls. 

          A few days ago, I think because memory is not my strong point, one of the nurses took the remote control. I could no longer watch television. Well, that didn’t overly concern me. I was always more of a reader than a watcher of telly. Though, to be honest, I did miss ‘The Bold and the Beautiful’, not that I would ever admit that to a living soul. I suppose the real problem was that I had decided not to talk, so it was almost impossible to communicate with the people around me. I pointed to the TV but they just shook their heads as if they had no idea what I was asking of them. For goodness’ sake, how silly are these people, I am literally pointing at the TV, gesturing for it to be turned on. 

          The next strange thing that rattled me was the staff started to wear strange outfits, almost as if they were in an alien universe. Masks that moved in and out with each breath, showing the outline of grim mouths pushed against white fabric, blue stiff gowns, plastic shields pulled over glasses, slippers- not one bit of skin visible, covered up from head to toe.  And then in my groggy, foggy brain I tried to remember the last time my niece and great niece came to visit. Strange, I thought to myself, shaking my head. It was on the periphery of my mind, just out of reach. When was the last visit? I scowled my brow in thought. And while I was in a mood to be thinking, when was the last time of anything! The last time I was wheeled into the dining room, the last time that annoying man from next door popped in to help me with my jigsaw- not that I needed any help of course! Yes, sometimes not talking has its disadvantages. But when was the last time the blonde haired, pale faced girl and her mother came to visit?   

          One of the aliens came into the room and dumped a tray of food on my desk. Soggy orange carrots, pale green beans, lumpy potatoes and a piece of meat attached to a thin pale bone that could have been lamb or beef. Unfortunately, from experience, tasting it would probably not get me any closer to an answer. The creature wheeled me over to the table and pushed on the brake, tucking a serviette into my cotton PJs. I couldn’t tell if it was the nice one or the other one, the one with the dark hair. Now they all looked alike, carbon copies of each other. I stared at the nurse’s mask with what I hoped was a pleading look, and for the very first time in a long time, I tried to speak. 

          Pointing at the mask with a shaky finger I said, ‘What is going on, what is happening here?’ But the blue ghost chose to ignore me as if I was mumbling or talking gobbledygook and just kept funneling the food into my mouth as if no words had been uttered. When she had spooned the last piece of soggy mush into my mouth, she rolled me over to the window and lifted up the thin white lace for me to peer out. To my horror there were people out there wearing masks holding signs that read, ‘Aunt Bibby we miss you.’ I think it was the pale faced girl but it was hard to tell as she was decked out in a pink and purple floral coloured mask. Large petals covering the area where her mouth should be. Oh, strange days indeed, I thought, strange days, and the strangeness of it all made me cry a single tear that rolled down my face, getting caught in the deep lines around my mouth dripping onto the serviette that the nurse had forgotten to remove. They were waving at me, these strange people and for some reason I felt an intense feeling of loneliness wash over me. I lifted up a shaky hand and waved slowly to the people standing outside my window and this seemed to give them hope, buoyed them on somehow and they waved back enthusiastically, shaking the placard that read ‘We miss you’. 

          After a time, the people seemed to get tired of standing outside in the cold winter sunshine, and they turned around with one more sad wave, and headed off down the path dragging the placards behind them, their shoulders slumped, hunched backs, heads down, weary feet moving slowly down the path. If I could see their faces through the coloured masks I was sure their mouths would be a crescent shaped moon in a jet black sky.

But that was days ago, I think, and now I lie here with a heavy heart and shallow breath. As I look around at my unfamiliar environment, I have missed the days in between. One minute I was there and the next I was here. Strange times indeed. Memory is fickle as it floats like dust moats in a strange white room, the winter sun shining through the salt encrusted picture window picking up the eerily floating particles. They dance like fairies in front of my eyes. 

Fairies forgotten, my throat feels scratchy and red hot, while my head aches a thumping heavy metal band in my brain; ACDC at the Palais.  I can’t seem to get enough air into my lungs. I know that I am sick but I just don’t understand why or how. Is it the memory thing again, I wonder. 

They have me on some type of machine now, it's breathing for me, I think. My mind is thinking in a kaleidoscope of colour. Pink for the baby's soft smooth skin, black for a halo of curls that frame an olive face and hazel eyes, green for the juicy plump grapes, red for the gritty earth, and blue for the sky and air that breathe life into the land.

My mind feels refreshed, reborn, I am calmer than I have been in weeks. I feel young again. We are children in my memory walking the bush tracks dotting around the peninsula, chasing the orange and black butterflies on Bushrangers Bay, flicking off the pesky march flies and fossicking in the sodden sand where the blue aquamarine water meets the Bunurong land. 

 I’m tired, so tired. I’m ready to go Ari. I can see you, standing in the vineyard at Red Hill, the sun catching your dark hair, framing your tanned face, you are beckoning for me to come, your smile lighting up my worried heart, lighting up my leftover life. It’s been too long; it’s been too sad. I am ready, Ari. I’m coming.

I remember you.