Bald-headed
Ch. 30

If only he could, my husband would accompany me on my night trip, because one of his many loves is poetry. Chairil Anwar, Sapardi Djoko Damono, Jalaluddin Rumi, Pablo Neruda, Maya Angelou, Shakespeare, and Ono no Komachi. Word lovers, language makers. Looking back, I was surprised by her desire for it, and sometimes I even regret it now.

Poetry brings tremendous beauty to life, but also tremendous sadness, and I'm not sure it's a fair exchange for someone my age. A man or woman should enjoy other things if he can, he should spend his last days in the sun. Mine will be spent with reading lights.

I walked up to him and sat down on the chair beside his bed. My back hurts when I sit. I have to get a new cushion for this chair, I reminded myself for the hundredth time.

I grabbed a hand and took it, skinny and fragile. Feels fun. He responded with a small gesture, and gradually his thumb started to gently rub my finger. I didn't speak until he did, this too I've learned.

Almost every day I sit still until the sun goes down, and on such days I know nothing about him.

A few minutes passed before he finally looked at me. She was crying. I smiled and let go of his hand, then reached into my pocket. I took out a handkerchief and wiped her tears. He looked at me as I did it, and I wondered what he was thinking.

"That's a beautiful story."

Light rain started to fall. A small drop gently tapped on the window. I took his hand again. It will be a good day, a very good day. The magical day. I smiled, I couldn't help it.

"Yes, indeed," I said to him.

"Have you written it?" she asked. His voice was like a whisper, a gentle breeze flowing through the leaves.

"Yes" I replied.

He turned towards the nightstand. The cure is in a small cup. Mine too. Small pills, the color is like a rainbow so that we do not forget to drink it. They're bringing mine here right now, to her room, though they shouldn't.

"I've heard that before, haven't I?"

"Yes" I said again, as I always do on days like this. I have learned to be patient.

He studied my face. His eyes are as dark as night.

"That doesn't scare me so much" he said.

"I know." I nodded, shaking my head slowly.

He turned around, and I waited again. He took my hand and grabbed the glass of water. It's on the nightstand, next to the medicine. He sipped.

"Is that a true story?" He sat a little in bed and drank again. His body is still strong. "I mean, do you know these people?"

"Yes" I said again. I can say more, but usually not. He's still handsome.

He asked the obvious.

"Well, which one did he finally marry?"

I said, "The right person for her."

"Where is that?"

He didn't know what to think about this but didn't ask me further. Instead he started to get nervous. He was thinking of a way to ask me another question, even though he wasn't sure how to do it. Then he chose to delay for a moment and grabbed one of the small paper cups.

"Is this mine?"

"No, this one," and I reached out and pushed the medicine towards him.

I can't reach it with my fingers. He took it and looked at the pill. I knew from the way he saw them that he didn't know what they were for. I used both hands to take my cup and throw the pill into my mouth. He did the same thing. There was no fight today. That makes it easy.

I raised my cup with a fake toast and washed the gritty taste of my mouth with my tea. Getting colder. While he swallowed solemnly and washed his throat with more water.

A bird began to sing outside the window, and we both turned our heads. We sat quietly for a moment, enjoying something beautiful together. Then the sound of the bird disappeared, and he sighed.

"I have to ask you something else" he said.

"Whatever it is, I'll try to answer it."

"But it's hard."

He didn't look at me, and I couldn't see his eyes. This is how he hid his thoughts. Some things never change.

"Take your time" I said.

I know what he's gonna ask. He finally looked at me and looked me in the eye. He offered a gentle smile, the kind of smile that is commonly shared with a child, not a lover.

"I don't want to hurt your feelings because you're so good to me, but..."

I waited. His words will hurt me. They will tear a piece from my heart and leave a scar.

"Who are you?" continued.

We have been living in Creekside D Support Center, for almost two years now. It was his decision to come here, partly because it was closer to our home, but also because he thought it would be easier for me.

We closed our house because none of us could bear to sell it, sign some papers, and so we accepted shelter and death in exchange for some of the freedom we had been working on for a lifetime.

He was right to do this, of course. There's no way I can do it alone, because illness has befallen us, both of us. We are at the last minute of the day of our lives, and the clock is ticking. Loudly. I wonder if I'm the only one who can hear it.

The throbbing pain ran through my fingers, and it reminded me that we had never held hands with our fingers interlocked since we moved here. I'm sad about this, but it's my fault, not her fault. This is arthritis in its worst form, rheumatism and advanced.

My hands are deformed and strange now, and my hands throb during most of my waking hours. I looked at my fingers and wanted them to go, amputated, but then I couldn't do the little things I had to do. So I use my claws, as I call it sometimes, and every day I hold her hand despite the pain, and I do my best to hold her hand because that's what she wants me to do.

Although the books say humans can live to be 120 years old, I don't want to, and I think my body won't succeed even if I do. It shattered apart, dying one after another, a steady erosion on the inside and in the joints. My hands are useless, my kidneys are failing, and my heart rate is dropping every month.

Worse, I had cancer at a stage that was not mild. This is my fight with an invisible enemy, and it will eventually take me, though not until I say it's time.

The doctors were worried about me, but I wasn't. I don't have time to worry in the twilight of my life.