The Withering Tree
One
The excuse of mourning was no longer sufficient to continue putting off grocery shopping for fresh food. For the past week I've been sating my basic needs (i.e. hunger) with nothing but dry cereal because I've even run out of milk.
I turned 75 just last week, and held a modest celebration with my cat Mills over a chocolate muffin with a single lighted matchstick in lieu of a candle. The following day, a funeral was also held, for old Mills. And yes, I cried. I could hardly stanch the tremors in my chest- I was a great weeper, and would cry at any good book, good movie, or if I happened to spot an old friend in the Orbituaries, much less over 5 years of friendship caged in a black, velvety body, in which the heart never beat again.
I grabbed my coat off the chair and slung it across my bony shoulders, over which slack skin stretched, skin that was sprinkled with so many brown spots. It's very odd, how your body changes to suit its age, or rather, degenerates. I plucked my tweed hat from the table and walked out of the door.
The streets of New York were racetracks for the motley fleet of yellow taxicabs and Rolls Royce's and Mercedes'. Within the safe recesses of the shady cave I hailed lovingly as home, time seemed to crawl when compared to its madly accelerating counterpart (or more aptly put, a separate entity that had sprouted) in the outside world of New York City.
I inhaled deeply, granting the cool, crisp air access into my lungs. I could almost feel the air sacs gorging greedily and bloating on the new arrival (outdoor air pollution was negligible), a stark difference to the stale, indoor air they had been accustomed to. Anyhow, I walked slowly.
The imperious buildings that framed the road stood high and proud, as if boasting of the worth it had to the army of directors, high ranking officers and some officeboys. Except it wasn't a war against invaders they were fighting, it was each other. Neither was it a war for resolution or peace, by a war for money and status.
I found a stone bench by a withering tree, its arms spread spindly and bare, its sunken trunk betraying its imminent death, and sat down.
I watched as a sparse group of business suit-clad corporate beings spilled out of a building. It was 5pm, and yet, all of them continue to walk at such amazing speeds, mobiles clapped to their ears, briefcases banging against their legs as they sped along.
They spoke in meaningless language, in meaningless conversations, of "stocks", of "shares", of "prices" and of "profits". Those conversations that held no meaning to me could well close a booming deal that might just elevate their career a notch higher up the social ladder, but you can't bring it to eternity.
I imagined a different group of people, the majority of the blind warriors within the building. I imagined them continuing to tap away at their laptops that were already growing so hot, they could sear the tables. I imagined them picking up a cold sandwich with one hand, the other still furiously dancing about the keyboard, eyes glued to the glaring screen, not noticing what they were feeding themselves. Many a time, they chose cold leftovers from the lunch they could barely fit into their water-tight schedules over steaming, hearty meals. They chose paperwork and documents as their dining companions over the wives and children waiting in earnest for them at home.
I pushed myself off the stone bench and continued walking towards the grocery store I knew was just a couple of blocks away.
I turned 75 just last week, and held a modest celebration with my cat Mills over a chocolate muffin with a single lighted matchstick in lieu of a candle. The following day, a funeral was also held, for old Mills. And yes, I cried. I could hardly stanch the tremors in my chest- I was a great weeper, and would cry at any good book, good movie, or if I happened to spot an old friend in the Orbituaries, much less over 5 years of friendship caged in a black, velvety body, in which the heart never beat again.
I grabbed my coat off the chair and slung it across my bony shoulders, over which slack skin stretched, skin that was sprinkled with so many brown spots. It's very odd, how your body changes to suit its age, or rather, degenerates. I plucked my tweed hat from the table and walked out of the door.
The streets of New York were racetracks for the motley fleet of yellow taxicabs and Rolls Royce's and Mercedes'. Within the safe recesses of the shady cave I hailed lovingly as home, time seemed to crawl when compared to its madly accelerating counterpart (or more aptly put, a separate entity that had sprouted) in the outside world of New York City.
I inhaled deeply, granting the cool, crisp air access into my lungs. I could almost feel the air sacs gorging greedily and bloating on the new arrival (outdoor air pollution was negligible), a stark difference to the stale, indoor air they had been accustomed to. Anyhow, I walked slowly.
The imperious buildings that framed the road stood high and proud, as if boasting of the worth it had to the army of directors, high ranking officers and some officeboys. Except it wasn't a war against invaders they were fighting, it was each other. Neither was it a war for resolution or peace, by a war for money and status.
I found a stone bench by a withering tree, its arms spread spindly and bare, its sunken trunk betraying its imminent death, and sat down.
I watched as a sparse group of business suit-clad corporate beings spilled out of a building. It was 5pm, and yet, all of them continue to walk at such amazing speeds, mobiles clapped to their ears, briefcases banging against their legs as they sped along.
They spoke in meaningless language, in meaningless conversations, of "stocks", of "shares", of "prices" and of "profits". Those conversations that held no meaning to me could well close a booming deal that might just elevate their career a notch higher up the social ladder, but you can't bring it to eternity.
I imagined a different group of people, the majority of the blind warriors within the building. I imagined them continuing to tap away at their laptops that were already growing so hot, they could sear the tables. I imagined them picking up a cold sandwich with one hand, the other still furiously dancing about the keyboard, eyes glued to the glaring screen, not noticing what they were feeding themselves. Many a time, they chose cold leftovers from the lunch they could barely fit into their water-tight schedules over steaming, hearty meals. They chose paperwork and documents as their dining companions over the wives and children waiting in earnest for them at home.
I pushed myself off the stone bench and continued walking towards the grocery store I knew was just a couple of blocks away.