The old man’s face was a roadmap of a hard life, as he squinted to look at the shiny, silver object in his hand.
To others it was a pocket watch, but he couldn’t quite grasp the name of it himself.
His hands felt cold and greasy, but again his perception of these was abstract with no language or nomenclature to go with them.
He rubbed the watch on his jeans because that seemed to be the right thing to do, and then he huffed another warm breath onto it, fogging up the cover.
He rubbed and huffed.
And huffed and rubbed.
Again and again.
Finally satisfied, he scrunched up his eyes, and peered at the watch, trying to decipher the words which were beautifully engraved on the case.
“To my darling Bill, from your soul mate Doris”
Somewhere, an ache began in his chest and pushed upwards via his neck to his head, and a single tear ran from each of his piercing blue eyes.
But he didn’t know the reason for his sadness.
For he didn’t remember.
The words, or the wife.
And whilst the brain was damaged beyond repair like an old pair of scratched and weather-worn boots.
The soul remembered.
And he wept.
After a little while, Bill turned his head and stared out the window, a light breeze carrying the sweet and pungent smell of Gardenias from the garden.
They still bloomed, even though his wife’s favourite garden beds were now heavily overgrown and choked with weeds.
A small smile turned up one side of his mouth, wistful humour without a name or reason.
He looked down at the ink-stained desk blotter and a sheaf of papers covered in a fine, calligraphy-like handwriting.
A shelf groaning under the weight of hundreds of books stood idly next to him. If inanimate objects could speak, this one would express the sadness at the loss of this man’s brilliant mind.
A writer’s writer who lived all of the lives he wrote about. Adventure, drama and yes even romance. He had mastered them all to award and acclaim.
But now objects and their purpose and names eluded him. Dancing just out of reach of the brain of a giant who could no longer grasp their meaning, no matter how hard he tried.
A shrill, piercing whistle caught his attention.
And just for a moment, he was whole.
“The kettle” he thought.
“The kettle!” he recalled.
He stood up, walked over to the small stove in the kitchen. He took the kettle off the burner and turned the gas knob to the off position.
A moment later his wonderful brain also switched back to off.
And he stood there.
Holding a container full of something hot, and a shiny, silver object.
His wife gone, his memory gone, his understanding gone.
Lost to old father time.
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