Mrs F. Recurrant Dream

Mrs F. put her hand on the banisters. She saw the carved wood glimmer in the semidarkness. And now she could feel it as well. The banisters had never failed her, supporting her during dreadful days, as she would come down and lose all strength for a memory. The feeling of everything tumbling down, as she would realize: he had ceased to exist, long before she even admitted it.
But again, she heard a muffled tinkle from behind the kitchen door.
The hall smelled of beeswax and myrrh. She loved the soothing, reassuring smell of it. She kept it this way, to remind her that she was safe now, she was home. It could not be. He had never lived to see this house. Surely, her husband, awoken by the clicking of the bedroom doorknob would follow her down and point out the absurdity of it with a sympathetic smile, almost condescending. But nobody moved upstairs.
And the muffled tinkle rippled through the shadows once more.
The thick and soft Persian rug turned to icy velvet against her bare feet, minute silk needles pushing into her soles. A twist in her stomach begged her to go back to bed, to run away to her safer husband’s side. But she had to know. She heard the sound again. She had to reach for the door and thrust it open.
And expectedly, the light was on. Expectedly, she saw the back of his untidy white haired head behind the table, his bent weary back as he rummaged for pans in the cupboard under the sink. And expectedly, raw vegetables that he would not remember how to cook stood on the counter, ready to be put as such in a pan, over a stove that he would not remember how to work. And he would not remember why.
She closed the door behind her.
He stood up. And she knew. Just a body. His wrinkled mellow skin hung like rags on his thin bones. His yellow emaciated face bore the still features of a melted wax bust. His eyes were circled with red flesh from which every lash had fled. They looked like wounds. And from these wounds protruded blood shot bulbs with grey irises that showed no sign of recognition, no hint of self-consciousness. No awareness. Full size picture of a corpse inserted into her kitchen. Just a machine. But she had to help, even though she feared him more than anything else. She had to guide the machine, until it broke. She always did. Always would. So she took the machine’s cold arm and said gently:
“Come on, father. I’ll take you to your room.”