Her Spectacles

Brown spectacles. Big, round, and made of plastic, they lie nonchalantly on the table, a sharp contrast to the dull white of a once-pink table.

Her spectacles.

Like a tripwire that sends you crashing to the ground, they lie in wait, a painful reminder of that unrelenting tide called time.

Her things lie scattered around the house, like land mines, each one sending thought after thought juddering into the abyss of memory.

Death is an oft discussed topic, its ramifications have been experienced, dissected and debated upon so many times that it sits on an elevated pedestal in the collective consciousness of the society.

But what of old age? That treacherous threshold that makes children of adults who’ve lived, loved and seen it all.

Like childhood, old age refuses to cooperate, refuses to listen, and balks at orders.

How do you react when you offer her food and all she says is she wants to die?

You look into her deeply-lined face, and try to remember when you lit up her world.

What do you do when she lashes out at you because you offered to do the dishes?

Beneath the scorching anger, you seek the person that did everything in her power to make you stop crying.

The years sneak up, ambush and annihilate her, and then unforgivably erode her so much that you are left looking at the mere shell of a warm human being who once existed.

Old age is a thief. It steals the essence of those you love.

Puts you through tantrums and hardens you so much, that you fail to see the vulnerability beneath it.

Reminds you forcibly, against your will, of the inevitability of time, of what was and what could have been.

Of love, loss and endearment.

Of endless cups of coffee.

Of dolls made from chocolate wrappers.

Of band-aids on skinned knees.

Of a comforting presence as solid as a wall.

Of a safety net coming loose.

Her spectacles lie on the table. Inanimate, mute, yet capable of evoking crushing sadness.