Transit home
Sunset cast a glow over the fenced garden of his world. The weeping willows seemed to restrain from weeping as the stream bubbled on its way to the meadows outside the high wall. The magic of twilight was lighting up the environment around the transit home. . .
Each glow of sunset erased the fears of the effects of moving time, the oppressions of old age, loneliness and fear of impending death. He was able to appreciate, once again, the beauty of the flaming anthuriums, the soft gentle scent of roses in their pots. A low fence of interwoven sticks separated them, like the men’s quarters of the Home for Elders were separated from the quarters of the old ladies by a low parapet wall.
A few of those old ladies, their wrinkled faces and white hair softened by the same glow of the gentle smiling sun, nodded and waved to him now. He smiled and waved back. He longed to go and join them on their stone bench and share the beauty of nature’s glory at the end of a day, but he dared not do so. Rules were rules and the good Sister, the nun who ran the home for the aged, would not approve of an old man sitting happily among old women. Although they lived under the same roof, ate in the same dining hall, watched television together, too much intimacy was not appreciated in the home.
In his mind, life reverted back to his childhood. Once again he was barricaded in a play pen from which he could not climb out. He must not be a naughty boy. Memory brought out another old fear. Eventually, would he be compelled to wear pampers at night, if through old age, he became incontinent?
The bell rang for early dinner although the sun had not completely deserted the sky. He blew a farewell kiss in the direction of the sun, to avoid sending it in the direction of the old ladies. . .
‘Thank you for the memories,’ he whispered. How fast life had flown! His wife had died before him, his son had taken his wife and grandchildren and flown to a foreign land after installing him in this home for the elderly.
Picture post cards, letters and an occasional long distance call were the only contacts he enjoyed with his family. They could visit him for Christmas maybe. His son paid for his existence in the Transit Home. It was done through the rent money coming in from their own home rented out to another family. If he died in the Transit Home, the Sister would inform his family and they would return dutifully to bury him. His son never shirked his duty. But what he craved for was human warmth, not duty. This beautiful evening had proved that within, he was still very much alive. After dinner, television was approved for inmates who were interested. A game of cards, perhaps, but bedtime was sharp 10 p.m. Each inmate had to retire into his or her bedroom, locking the door after them before the main lights were switched off.
Alone in his bedroom, he switched on his bedside light to read a book. The Home library was limited and it was for the third time he was reading the same book. But before he could settle down to his reading, he went to draw the curtains across the window to shut out the magic of twilight which haunted him. To his amazement, a bright moon had replaced the dying sun in the sky and was casting a silvery glow over the garden. Twinkling stars surrounded it. Sudden joy returned to his heart. Nature would not rob a man of all happiness. She would create a substitute to keep him going until it was time for his transit from this world to the next. . .
Leaving the curtains open, he switched off the reading light and got into bed. He surrendered to the warmth of the moon. He was no more alone.
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