The room was darkening as the woman moved across the carpet of woven faded roses to switch on the lamp. It was quiet save for distant cars which didn’t bother her as her hearing wasn’t as good as it had been. She considered her fading eyesight and compromised small hearing difficulties were to be expected at her age. At least, she reminded herself, she had all her marbles. Faculties, as Dr Lord corrected her each time he saw her.
But she kept the light in her bedroom softly dim and rarely turned on the bright mirror light in the bathroom. The reflection that greeted her was someone she didn’t recognise; a shell of the vibrant woman who spoke her mind, laughed loudly, tackled the impossible and loved fiercely. The woman in the mirror had to struggle to assert herself. It wasn’t that she was incapable of speaking her mind as she always had, but now no one paid attention, or simply nodded, half listening.
It didn’t matter what she said. It was greeted with an indulgent smile, a vague nod. Once, conversationally, she commented to the girl cleaning her kitchen, “I shot my grandfather, you know.”
The girl was scrubbing furiously. “That’s nice.” Her family visited and called regularly. But the day-to-day passing of the hours lagged. She cooked simple meals for herself, read books, listened to the radio and pottered among her terrace pot plants and herbs. She walked the dog, sometimes catching sight of herself in a shop window, and hastily squared her shoulders, straightening her back.
She was uncomfortable journeying forth with women’s groups, retiree associations and neighbours who tended to bore her. No one had anything much to say that she hadn’t heard before or found plain silly or ill-informed.
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