Saturday, 4 February 2023
The Vote
Old One lies back in her pillows, sips unaccustomed coffee. There are extra pillows now and the heating pipes in the ward click with unusual warmth. A brightly coloured blanket on her bed too. Old One is past feeling pleasure, but comfort is surely welcome.
Noises in the corridor, but not the usual noises. No bangs and clattering of chipped enamel dishes. No undertones of annoyance. No shouts.
Nurse enters with soft feet then a little crowd of men and women with cameras and cautious eyes. Of course, it is election day. Old One in her pillows lying beneath her brightly coloured blanket, she remembers it now.
It is election day and she is to cast her vote. She wished to cast her vote and somehow Candidate’s ear caught the faint echo of her wish. Candidate must be there now, out in the quietly shuffling corridor where enamel dishes are no longer banged around.
Nurse arranges the brightly coloured blanket as Candidate enters, grandly but without obvious effort. Candidate looks around, seems satisfied before approaching Old One in her bed, her pillows and blanket.
A gold pen and a little slip of paper with Candidate’s name. Only one name. Old One grasps the gold pen in unsure fingers. Nurse assists, Doctor and Candidate look on, smile as the cameras click. As for the little crowd with the cautious eyes, they seem to smile too.
Then Old One dozes and it is soon dark. All are gone.
Heating pipes make no sound when Old One wakes in the dark. She lies flat, extra pillows gone, along with the brightly coloured blanket. Perhaps it was too warm? A whirl of snow whispers by her window as Old One closes her eyes for the last time.
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5 comments:
"Only one name".
They are all jockeying for that privileged position.
I'm rather obsessed with the concept of last times. Especially the ones we don't ever know about or never consider. For example there must be a last time your mother or father picks you up as a toddler, or sits you on their lap. That milestone passes entirely unheralded. Obviously there are many as one approaches death, but at least lots of those are marked, at least internally. More poignant are the ones only those left behind see, the knitting put down for the last time, never to be picked up again, the tool put away in the shed never to be used again, by that owner at least. These unrealised lasts are what I find so moving.
Sam - and watching the Candidate to see if he is the star to follow.
Sobers - I think about last times too. A recent one has been a schoolfriend I lost touch with - when was the last time we spoke? I can't remember. What was the last thing I said to my mother or father? Or looking to the future - will this be our last house? Huge numbers of them.
Oh Lord. Your post brought a year to my eye, then I read the comments...
Andy - everything ends, but dwelling on it certainly stirs up some memories. Can be too many sometimes.
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