Remembered Roses
I think it was only yesterday that I lived at my daughter's house. Maybe, maybe not. I don't remember anymore. My daughter told me that she and her husband had done some serious talking and decided I was well enough to live in my house again; the same house that Henry and I had lived in for thirty years, the same house where I raised a daughter and three sons, two had died. I remembered the roses, as I walked up to the front door, clutching my daughter's arm.
They always bloomed sweetly in the spring. My daughter walked me right up to my old door. We both stood in front for a few seconds and looked at each other. She opened the door so I could walk in and get a good look at my old brown furniture. Once inside I turned around and took another good look at my daughter and closed the door.
They always bloomed sweetly in the spring. My daughter walked me right up to my old door. We both stood in front for a few seconds and looked at each other. She opened the door so I could walk in and get a good look at my old brown furniture. Once inside I turned around and took another good look at my daughter and closed the door.
Day after day, I sit in my chair staring at the same unopened door. The brightness of color during the day changes from light red to a darker burgundy. I am becoming fond of this particular red, an earthy red, like a red tar thick with heat. Sometimes when the temperature blazes so hot that my fan oscillates nothing but fumes, I smoke.
I sit and watch television for hours. A show on Metaphysics begins to untangle in front of me. The film is in documentary style, black and white close-ups of Russians bending spoons with their minds.
The intensity of the cinematography leaves me feeling like ants are tingling my toes and sending nervous energy through my spine. I get up and look outside at the roses. A battle is going on between the flowerbeds and the roses.
Nature is playing havoc, entangling flowers, roses, and weeds. They are spreading like plague over the ground, even though the colors of the roses shimmer in the sun.
A couple of years ago I began to hear ringing in my left ear. A sort of sharp ringing that lasted a few long seconds. I worried about it, but not as worried as my daughter.
My daughter could not stop spitting out words like Alzheimer's, conditions I believe she read in women's magazines. She worried about my ears ringing, she called the local V.A. Hospital that Henry used to go to with his blindness.
What a tiresome drive it was to the hospital with my daughter.
The hospital was situated right in the center of the city. When I was younger, I lived in a city for almost two years. My steering wheel cover, in the Chrysler I used to own, had to be replaced twice, because I dug the vinyl off with my fingernails.
When we arrived at the hospital, exhaustion weighted down my hands and feet. The doctor nodded at me and grumbled. He took me aside and said, "What a beautiful family you have, Gabriella."
I stuttered like and old fool. I felt like throwing up waiting for the eye doctor to see me. He said I had permantly dilated pupils. He arranged for a CAT scan and MRI. The MRI coffin made me crazy, and I yelled like a madwoman. Then they gave me a shot to calm me down, but the ringing in my ears overcame the soft music playing.
I sit and watch television for hours. A show on Metaphysics begins to untangle in front of me. The film is in documentary style, black and white close-ups of Russians bending spoons with their minds.
The intensity of the cinematography leaves me feeling like ants are tingling my toes and sending nervous energy through my spine. I get up and look outside at the roses. A battle is going on between the flowerbeds and the roses.
Nature is playing havoc, entangling flowers, roses, and weeds. They are spreading like plague over the ground, even though the colors of the roses shimmer in the sun.
A couple of years ago I began to hear ringing in my left ear. A sort of sharp ringing that lasted a few long seconds. I worried about it, but not as worried as my daughter.
My daughter could not stop spitting out words like Alzheimer's, conditions I believe she read in women's magazines. She worried about my ears ringing, she called the local V.A. Hospital that Henry used to go to with his blindness.
What a tiresome drive it was to the hospital with my daughter.
The hospital was situated right in the center of the city. When I was younger, I lived in a city for almost two years. My steering wheel cover, in the Chrysler I used to own, had to be replaced twice, because I dug the vinyl off with my fingernails.
When we arrived at the hospital, exhaustion weighted down my hands and feet. The doctor nodded at me and grumbled. He took me aside and said, "What a beautiful family you have, Gabriella."
I stuttered like and old fool. I felt like throwing up waiting for the eye doctor to see me. He said I had permantly dilated pupils. He arranged for a CAT scan and MRI. The MRI coffin made me crazy, and I yelled like a madwoman. Then they gave me a shot to calm me down, but the ringing in my ears overcame the soft music playing.
The Russians bending spoons are driving me to that intense nervous state that haunts me. Suddenly, the Russians are gone from the screen and a fat man in a black and white image on the television screen is sitting in a living room armchair.
His t-shirt is like the ones soldiers wear, but this man is not a soldier. He fills out so much of his shirt that extensions of his flesh bulge out from underneath his extremely soaked armpits. By the looks of it, he chain-smokes.
"Hey, fat man. I smoke an awful lot too. I fear the habit is leading me down the same path as you." I speak loudly to the television.
He seems so slovenly in his chair, watching television, smoking one cigarette after another.
All of a sudden the television screen turns into a brilliant sunspot. I look away as I light another cigarette myself. When I look up all that is left is a dark burn spot on the por fat man's chair as a lady's voice begins to explain:
His t-shirt is like the ones soldiers wear, but this man is not a soldier. He fills out so much of his shirt that extensions of his flesh bulge out from underneath his extremely soaked armpits. By the looks of it, he chain-smokes.
"Hey, fat man. I smoke an awful lot too. I fear the habit is leading me down the same path as you." I speak loudly to the television.
He seems so slovenly in his chair, watching television, smoking one cigarette after another.
All of a sudden the television screen turns into a brilliant sunspot. I look away as I light another cigarette myself. When I look up all that is left is a dark burn spot on the por fat man's chair as a lady's voice begins to explain:
"This is only a reenactment. Reports from the Sheriff and Coroner of Hobert County are quoted as saying that the room smelt oddly of sulphur. The Fire Marshall had Dr. Jack Brent from the forensics lab examine the details of the death of the man. Dr. Brent found not a single clue into why Mr. Jackson had been burned. The only explanation Dr. Brent could offer into his case files was incineration by a cigarette."
"See now. You shouldn't smoke so much mister fat man."
"After a few seldom-documented cases of this type, a team of scientists from the University of Ohio decided to test the hypothesis that cigarettes could cause such a horrifying death. A controlled lab enviroment was created and after years of scrutinizing data, Dr. Karl Brender stated that they had reproduced in the lab a situation that could lead to slow incineration simply by the coal of an unfinished cigarette. Many believe that this explanation is inconclusive. The officers at the scene, who arrived shortly after the occurence, were quoted as saying that the damage was only to the immediate are surrounding the victim. Certain items in the room had melted, including the television screen and a light bulb in a lamp nearby. The lampshade did not even have a scar. What could have produced such heat? Could it be spontaneous combustion?"
"That poor man. That poor, poor fat man," I say as I push the button on the television set and the screen blackened.
The man on the screen reminds me of Henry when he died. I remember cooking dinner and walking out into the livingroom to bring Henry his food.
By then he was completely blind and never left his recliner. I walked out with his plate and set it down on his television tray.
I looked over at him and noticed that his lips had turned blue and his cloudy eyes had glossed over. I remember touching his lips with my fingers. His lips seemed so cold and lifeless.
Something had cooled in him before he ignited internally. I can't keep remembering my Henry's death, he was so cold, and I was so alone.
Today I called to have my cable shut off. Is it a man on the phone? I am not sure. It is confusing to me. It could have been a recording.
I asked the man politely to shut off my service. I hope that it was a man on the phone and not a recording because I can't watch television programs again.
The voice on the phone did not argue, yet whispered, "Yes, Ma'am."
Then all of a sudden, with no due warning, he spoke to me in a much louder penetrating tone, "Okay, then, I need your address and phone number."
Silence.
"Your Social Security Number will do."
Silence.
"Ma'am, are you there?"
"You started the blessed service! You shuld know where to go to remove it!" I hollered into the phone before hanging up.
Even if he was a recording he did not have to be so rude. My nerves can't take that blasted cable anymore. The constant bombardment of memories makes me have tics.
Lately, to make my tics go away, my daughter had me start scent therapy. My house is full of the smell of candles that my daughter put everywhere, an old powerful musky odor.
I began to search for a reason to leave my home. The scent of rose began to crawl off a flame located on top of my television's black screen.
I decide to edge outside to see the sunshine for a moment and pass the flowerbed outside my front door.
I have to leave just in case the images return.
The roses have overgrown the flowers and weeds in my front yard, twining in between my white picket fence and my mailbox.
How long have I been inside?
The brightness of the brown weeds tries to overcome the roses. The roses have won.
I walk a little toward the end of my front porch and I notice that I do not see weeds or the dead lawn, only the rose bushes and its thorns.
I stand in the blinding sun for what seems like forever.
I turn, go inside, and shut the door.
"See now. You shouldn't smoke so much mister fat man."
"After a few seldom-documented cases of this type, a team of scientists from the University of Ohio decided to test the hypothesis that cigarettes could cause such a horrifying death. A controlled lab enviroment was created and after years of scrutinizing data, Dr. Karl Brender stated that they had reproduced in the lab a situation that could lead to slow incineration simply by the coal of an unfinished cigarette. Many believe that this explanation is inconclusive. The officers at the scene, who arrived shortly after the occurence, were quoted as saying that the damage was only to the immediate are surrounding the victim. Certain items in the room had melted, including the television screen and a light bulb in a lamp nearby. The lampshade did not even have a scar. What could have produced such heat? Could it be spontaneous combustion?"
"That poor man. That poor, poor fat man," I say as I push the button on the television set and the screen blackened.
The man on the screen reminds me of Henry when he died. I remember cooking dinner and walking out into the livingroom to bring Henry his food.
By then he was completely blind and never left his recliner. I walked out with his plate and set it down on his television tray.
I looked over at him and noticed that his lips had turned blue and his cloudy eyes had glossed over. I remember touching his lips with my fingers. His lips seemed so cold and lifeless.
Something had cooled in him before he ignited internally. I can't keep remembering my Henry's death, he was so cold, and I was so alone.
Today I called to have my cable shut off. Is it a man on the phone? I am not sure. It is confusing to me. It could have been a recording.
I asked the man politely to shut off my service. I hope that it was a man on the phone and not a recording because I can't watch television programs again.
The voice on the phone did not argue, yet whispered, "Yes, Ma'am."
Then all of a sudden, with no due warning, he spoke to me in a much louder penetrating tone, "Okay, then, I need your address and phone number."
Silence.
"Your Social Security Number will do."
Silence.
"Ma'am, are you there?"
"You started the blessed service! You shuld know where to go to remove it!" I hollered into the phone before hanging up.
Even if he was a recording he did not have to be so rude. My nerves can't take that blasted cable anymore. The constant bombardment of memories makes me have tics.
Lately, to make my tics go away, my daughter had me start scent therapy. My house is full of the smell of candles that my daughter put everywhere, an old powerful musky odor.
I began to search for a reason to leave my home. The scent of rose began to crawl off a flame located on top of my television's black screen.
I decide to edge outside to see the sunshine for a moment and pass the flowerbed outside my front door.
I have to leave just in case the images return.
The roses have overgrown the flowers and weeds in my front yard, twining in between my white picket fence and my mailbox.
How long have I been inside?
The brightness of the brown weeds tries to overcome the roses. The roses have won.
I walk a little toward the end of my front porch and I notice that I do not see weeds or the dead lawn, only the rose bushes and its thorns.
I stand in the blinding sun for what seems like forever.
I turn, go inside, and shut the door.