The Online Literary Magazine of Cerritos College

Fiction

Gafia Green

The Time of Day

   He didn’t see the pleasant neighborhood, quiet in the early morning sun, flowers gleaming here and there.  He didn’t notice the so-polite children skirting around him as he stood on the corner.  He didn’t feel the cool air or smell the just cut grass of the lawns.  He looked and all he saw was the sidewalk, stretching a thousand miles before him.

   He pushed his left foot forward, trying not to think of what his wife had said.  "A journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step," she repeated.  She said it every morning.  He fought the dread of his daily journey and every morning found him standing on the corner, stepping one step at a time.

   His right foot dragged along after him.  He pushed the walker another step and started again.

   His doctor told his wife it was a ‘cerebral accident.’ The doctor talked in low, comforting tones to his wife, as she cried, and they both ignored him.  He lay in the hospital bed and tried to remember how he got there.  He’d been gardening! Oh his garden, the flowers, the trees.  Herbs he’d brought with him from Korea, so long ago; flowers that enchanted him when he visited the strange countries of the United States, he nurtured them all in his yards.  He’d been gardening, and now he was here.  He felt tired and fuzzy, like he was sleeping still. Perhaps this was a dream; but why would he dream of his wife crying?

   Pain defined the time he spent in the hospital. Physical pain, as his muscles sizzled from physical therapy.  Mental pain, as he realized that half his body was unresponsive clay. When he was released, he could move again, enough at least to keep himself clean.  The nurses were impressed.  The doctor even praised him.  His wife stopped crying long enough to hug him, and kiss him gently on his chin.

   He was not pleased. He made a ten minute journey from his kitchen to his sofa.  Another ten minutes from there to the bathroom.  Climbing the stairs was grueling exercise.  His first night home he needed half an hour to climb 14 risers to the top.  He didn’t let his utter exhaustion stop him from staggering to his room, where he neatly changed into his pajamas and climbed atop the covers before giving way to his shaking muscles.

   His wife spent a portion of the next afternoon making up the downstairs guestroom for him. She brought all his clothes and toiletries and shoes and placed them in the tiny room. He said nothing.  She wouldn’t look at him.

   That night, he climbed the stairs again.  This night’s climb was longer.  He hung onto the newel post at the top for five minutes while his pulse soothed down from the effort. Uncertain that his leg would hold up, he leaned on the wall as he went into his bedroom.  He undressed and climbed naked into his bed.

   His wife fetched all his belongings back to their room before she joined him.

   The therapist told him to walk every day, at least a mile. He could build up to that distance gradually, but he had to walk every day.  Of course he couldn’t do it unassisted.  His wife was to go along, in case he fell.

   He left that first morning before she woke. He’d always thought of it as gardener’s morning, when the dew freshened the plants and the sun was still gentle.  He pulled his clunky metal walker along for the first few steps ‘til he discovered how to use it.  He developed a rhythm, push the walker, step forward with his left foot, drag his right foot, pause, then push the walker again.  He felt pretty jaunty, actually.  He was walking.  Birds sang just for him, since everyone else was asleep.  He noticed what flowers were growing in his neighbors’ yards.  He walked to the end of the sidewalk, whistled at the puppy fenced in the corner yard, then turned around again for home.

   Three years later he was able to retire the walker. It was still in good condition – his wife washed it every day – and they’d replaced the little rubber feet several times, but now he could walk without it. His nephew, an infrequent but beloved visitor, brought him a cane. It also had a thick rubber foot, and the wood was a supple, gleaming brown burl. He would walk using this stick.

   His rhythm changed. Now he went step click drag.  His foot, his right foot, would it never learn to pick itself up again? Sometimes he felt angry towards his slower leg.  All these miles and it still dragged along like a reluctant child. Sometimes his wife would rub his slow leg with some oil or lotion or another that she’d bought from friends.  Always ready with another remedy. The remedy never cured him, but the rubbing, oh the rubbing eased his constantly sore muscles.

   She never noticed his nightmares.  What were they?  He only half-remembered  himself.  Sometimes his garden was blighted; sometimes he was swimming in a hot orange ocean. He thrashed a lot; did he kick her in his sleep? Surely she would have told him if he had.

   He hated his morning walk. He still awoke when the early light was dim, and still dressed in his gardening clothes and straw hat, ready for his walk.  He grasped his cane which stood sentinel at the front door and made his halting way to the sidewalk.  The colors gradually disappeared but he was focused on the gray sidewalk, so he didn’t notice.  He failed to notice when the hawks took up residence in the big palm tree, and he never whistled at the puppy in the corner yard any more. Puppy?  She was a long legged adult dog, but he hardly saw the chain fence that confined her, much less her sweet panting face.  Still he forced his legs in their accustomed rhythm, step click drag, then turned to make his way back home.

   He lost interest in his garden. He’d spent the first few years of his retirement traveling and collecting beautiful plants.  He grew them in his yard, roses and lilac and herbs, sage, lobelia, jasmine, passion flowers, even a kiwi tree that had cost him a fortune.  He had intricate systems for watering his plants, all he had to do was turn the knob by the back door. He’d turn the knob then sit on the carmine-painted wrought iron garden seat.

   As the season turned, he watched his fruits rot on the ground below the trees, and the leaves browned and dropped.  He left them undisturbed. His wife offered to rake them.  He refused.  When winter set in, he neglected to prune his roses and vines.  Let them grow naturally, he thought.

   He stood on the corner.  He couldn’t take another step.  The desert was too broad. The river was too deep.  The swamp had drained his will and his muscles begged him to stop fighting.   He leaned on his cane.

   His wife found him there, half an hour later.  If she was frightened, she didn’t show it.  She stood with him a while, chattering about her day, an anticipated visit from her niece, how the bread she’d baked smelled delicious.  If she saw the tear on his face, dropping from his weak right eye, she didn’t mention it.  He drew his body as straight as he could, like a knight gathering strength for a final battle, and began the walk home.

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