I used to be the driver. I was the
pathfinder, the trailblazer who sought frontiers beyond the horizon. I opened
doors. I flew kites in lightning storms to feel the thrill. I smoked pipes to
think beyond thought. Once.
Then, it hit. Age, early dementia, Parkinson's, reality.
I picked up the keys, but Louise said, "Uh uh, Bill. You know the
rules."
Damn right I did. Sit and take it. Be a vegetable in a cart.
So off we drove, to one of my many doctor's appointments, Louise navigating
while I sat and stared and misremembered and trembled.
I reached for the radio dial, my finger shaking like Tantalus seeking a taste
of apple.
"Let me, Bill."
I tried to sip from my Stanley water bottle.
"I've got it," as Louise picked it up for me, placed the straw in my
mouth, and held a tissue under my dribbling lips.
We arrived. Louise jumped out of the car, her body not failing, to open my
door. Then, she helped me out, reaching under my arm for support, a quiet smile
radiating from her tired face.
I stood and teetered, swaying like a storm-tossed dinghy, oars cast overboard. And I walked, each step a stutter, my brain
in synaptic spasms, an electrical cord frayed, light intermittent.
"How are you today, Bill?" my neurologist asked, his voice wooden, as
he looked at my chart, never in my eyes.
I didn't respond. I couldn't get words out. I was in a jar, lid tight. The
pressure in the jar was building. An explosion awaited. I wanted the explosion—release,
my last frontier.
about the author
Steve Gerson writes poetry and flash about life's dissonance. He has published in many journals plus his 11 chapbooks: Once Planed Straight; Viral; And the Land Dreams Darkly; The 13th Floor; What Is Isn’t; There Is a Season; Have Not; Who Am I Today; Dystopia; Grim; and Through Shadows
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