Open Writing

I am caregiver for my father. Time was something we took for granted until his illness. Now, every moment counts. Every moment has become special.

Tony sat on the wooden deck next to his great-grandfather, Nathan. The sun was bright and highlighted the gold in his short reddish brown hair. Nathan sat in a comfortable chair under a blue and white striped shade umbrella. His grey sunken eyes focussed on Tony eating a strawberry ice cream. The boy's small, pink tongue flicked in and out between the chubby clenched fingers that held the cone. The melted ice-cream had softened the cone and it leant at a precarious angle.

A rivulet of pink slalomed down the flawless tanned skin of his young arm and gathered into a droplet at his elbow. His mouth opened wide, and most of the unmelted glob of soft ice-cream perched on top of the cone disappeared into it. He looked up at his great-grandfather and grinned, a pink, creamy grin. He swallowed and concentrated on licking the leftover slick from around his lips.

Nathan shook his head and said nothing. He had softened with old age and become more tolerant of others since his illness had worsened.

The droplet hanging from Tony's elbow fell silently to the deck. His mouth puckered as his forehead became furrowed. He dipped two fingers of his free hand into the drop and raised it to his mouth and then repeated the action.

Nathan reached down with a thin, transparent hand and tapped Tony on the shoulder. 'Eat what's left in your hand. Don't eat off the deck, boy. You'll get germs in your tummy.'

'Is that what happened to you, Poppa? Did you lick some cancer germs?'

Nathan frowned. No one had mentioned the C word out loud before, especially with such curious innocence. He cleared his throat and handed Tony a clean, folded blue handkerchief.

'Probably. When I was young. Mind you smoking for forty years didn't help.'

Tony shoved the soggy cone into his mouth and studied his sticky fingers. He chewed quickly, as quickly as a child with two missing front teeth could, and swallowed.

'I don't like cancer,' he licked one finger, then the other: 'I'd like to kick cancer in the butt! Hard too! I would—because it hurts you! I think it's mean.'

'If my leg could reach I'd help you, son. Just promise me you'll live life as keenly as you eat ice cream. Savour every moment as if it is your last.'

Tony raised his freckled face and looked at his great-grandfather. His clean hand shaded his eyes. 'You know lots of hard words.'

Nathan grinned. His face held an alert, morphine-free expression. 'Yes, I do. I know lots of things. Now shoo, go and wash your face and hands.'

Tony stood up and kissed his great-grandfather on his sunken cheek, walked a few steps and stopped. He raised his arm and licked a pink spot he'd missed earlier. He smiled a satisfied smile and went inside.

Nathan lay back. His desire to survive, to endure IT, travelled down the same path as his appetite, becoming smaller every day. Soon he himself would take that journey of no return. He didn't mind anymore. These days, when he was not oblivious to all around him, he was tired and weak. He didn't mind the morphine: it gave him time to spend on memories: back to the time when he was a healthy golfer, playing eighteen holes before heading home to a meal fit for a king.

An expression of pain crossed his face. He grimaced and looked at the pink-stained, dishevelled handkerchief on the green track suit pants that covered his wasted, skeletal legs. A slight smile, very slight, curled the corners of his mouth upwards.

It was time to go inside, time to take his medication. He reached for the small brass bell and shook it.

Today had been a good day.

© 2004 Kathy Berger-Sewell