lettres from another time

first day

I was lying there on this bed, calm, trying not to be shocked by this little girl who looks like Sarah Heather. I must be a man who is old enough not to be shocked by the surprise this life holds in my eyes, and I know very well that I am not the first. An old man who has reached eighty feels confused and afraid. I feel afraid of illness from time and of love as well. I am not alone. I know this well, but no one shows this aspect of his behavior. The result of me alone struggling with these feelings is the same and it never changes. I am excited to see The other old people who are here, maybe I can find someone who will be honest and become my friend. I asked Abigail to put me in the wheelchair and to change the bed sheet as she wished. I asked her not to put white or yellow.
I hate these colors. She said, “But we only have white.” I said, “Then try to buy me something cheerful.  a color that carries itself, no other color does.” She said, “Okay, I will get you a new color.” I went out to the large lobby. It was the Arthur Gillette Nursing Home. It was all made of pine wood, simple in decoration, a large clock hanging above the entrance door, and simple chairs and tables made of wood. This house looked like something strange that I had never encountered in homes. I used to watch all the movements of the employees and the elderly, but I never saw myself as one of them. They say that at this age, a person cannot accept that he is at this age, and that is why he wants to feel excited and motivated to do other things that his body cannot handle.

What is the point of staying alive if there is not one of those laughs that we cannot breathe after, those laughs that bring out our tears so loudly, I walked around in the chair in the dining hall, and entered the old women’s rooms one by one, I did not find anything that interested me at all. I apologize for saying this, but all I saw was that they were just a pile of the remains of this life. None of them were fit for casual or interesting conversation. Some of them were suffering from dementia, others did not even know how to say their names, and others lived only on medications. I hoped to find some of them still alive, even if they suffer from moral or spiritual disorders, but I did not find them, and what is the point? Whoever put us all here, I wanted to change the name of the nursing home to a home to await death, because everyone here was waiting for death, not life.
I sat for a long time until I got tired of sitting. I asked Abigail to take me out to the garden for a little while. She was pushing the wheelchair slowly, and when I passed through the large hallway, she was standing to the side. She was laughing, and I could not find anything to say to myself except that women always find a way to repair all the damage  We suffer from it, and the darkness and pain that I saw in those tired faces became something insignificant that should never be looked at. I could not see anything else in that hall, and I could never call her Mary, and some things are destined not to change and should not change then. She was a likeness, her features should have been kept inside a painting, in some museum, she should have been something that belonged to art and not to us humans.
The name that matches my memory and her face was the name Sarah Heather, and I envied her and hated her as much as I loved her. How could she be again? How did this time preserve the dice and repeat her features and make me, too, a monster with wrinkles that eat away at his face and the color of a sad sea flooding inside my eyes? Is there a guy who owns my face and I'm a guy elsewhere in this world too? I was lost and wondering a lot. I did not notice that Abigail had left me a quarter of an hour ago in the garden. The rain had begun to fall slowly, thin and refreshing. I raised my head to the sky, misty, and that atmosphere and the smell of wet dirt took me back to the year July 1940. I was in my late twenties, I was returning home to attend my mother’s funeral. My mother had died at that time, and they gave me permission to go to the funeral for four days. The date of July 6 was a terrifying event in my memory, because despite this date, the rain was pouring down and the fog seemed to cover everything. I was returning from Alabama on the train. That small, dusty window was reflecting my tired face, and I felt that Florida was also sad about the passing of my mother. She had left for the other world during the long summer days. She had always hated it, and I think that she instinctively felt that she would die in this season.
I was a person who was good at lying and good at carrying lies in my face. I did not look very sad even though my heart was being torn apart. It was a terrible thing. How could I act that I was a soldier with a strong heart and did not allow my tears to fall? I was acting a lot of things. I did not laugh much, nor did I talk much. I try not to act like a fool, but I was really a fool. I spent the middle of my youth watching others watch me, but they didn't care about any of my actions. I seemed like a normal man, no matter what I was doing, and I know that at that moment, if they asked me if I was sad about losing her or what.. I feel it, I will say I don't know, but I know that I am hungry, and in fact I want to vomit my entire stomach, and so I escape from them with trivial answers so that they see me without a heart.

I stood in the middle of them and I did not know many of those who were coming and I knew then that they had all grown up and that when my mother was telling me stories about her past, she would always say that Mrs. Dana was thirty years old, but she always forgot to tell me about their ages at the present time. She was living the stories of her youth with them before. Forty years from now, they are in their seventies and eighty years old, and my mother has also grown old and I have never noticed the wrinkles on her face or her hair that has fallen out. She remained young in my memory, and she died at the age of seventy-five, meaning that I am five years older than my mother now. Isn’t that? It is a complicated matter, and we should not look at it with a funny light. It is a tragedy when a son outlives his mother. In any case, my father was separated from my mother, and I did not see him much except on boring holidays and holidays. I used to stay with my mother, and for this reason I could never care about his presence. He was a complete stranger, wearing an old, shabby black suit, a man who had abandoned his family for another woman, and I had never had any brothers. I was an only child,

Death is just like a wedding. You must attend it with your best decorations. I, in turn, was wearing the most beautiful thing I owned. I placed a bouquet of mimosa roses on her grave. They are flowers for cemeteries. They were beautiful yellow flowers. I know that the dead do not need flowers, but we are the ones who need them. It's the kind of gift we can be happy with when we give it to them. Flowers know very well what love and sadness mean. I fell to my feet and couldn't bear it anymore when I saw her tombstone bearing her full name, age, and date of death. Mrs. Lillian Powell Hall, date of death 5. From November 1865 to July 1940 She summed up her whole life and the years she had lived in those numbers, and it seemed like a long time that she had lived, and I thought that too at that time, but the moment I reached an age older than her, I realized what it means for a person to live, that he never lives, and I was trying to live my sadness and I bid her farewell in a way that was less painful for both of us. I did not want it to be a bad or dramatic farewell. I said many of the words that I had always wanted to say to her, and my tears rolled down my cheeks, and they were tears unlike any other tears. That afternoon was heavy. It is the type of afternoon that you cannot I struggled not to sleep in it, a crazy and quiet afternoon, cold and hot, and at that moment I felt that I did not exist either and that everything we felt was just a fleeting painful moment, and it is difficult to say what I felt at that time, even if I did, I would still feel that I did not talk about pain in the way I did Enough
Indeed, I lived with my sadness within myself for many days. After I returned to work, I was a little busy, but I used to forget, forget that she had passed away. Sometimes I would think of writing letters to her, then I would remember at the same moment that she had died, and I had to bring back that feeling of loss every time. One time I remember that she had passed away, and slowly the pain burned away, becoming ashes, and could no longer burn us, and so I got used to her passing, and decided to get married. I did not know any woman, but I knew some friends, and I asked them to introduce me to a serious woman who wanted to get married. I do not like to waste time. In 1945, I met my wife, and with the setting of the sun and the leaves falling at a greater speed than the events that led to the outbreak of war at that time and the collapse of many countries, I was well aware that there would come another summer of love, a summer that I would love and he would love me again.