Mary at Number 27

by Nicola Pett


The wind in the gums sounds like the sssssss
 at the end of a cassette tape
when the song is over
but the tape keeps rolling.
I imagine life is like that for you.
Non-stop static.

Once, you travelled.
Just a girl, a long time ago,
traversing the continent,
alone and adventurous.
Then,
three husbands:
a ski instructor, a radio man, a sponge
and dogs, not children.
Now the last one,
settled on the crochet blanketed couch,
presses her body into you.

You are stoic in the face of illness,
‘I was born in World War Two.’
You are resilient in the face of loneliness,
‘We were rationed for years.’
At times you are momentarily depressed but…
‘We got on with things.’

Your nemesis, Dementia
maroons you, tethers you to the neighbourhood,
to a loop of repetitive daily walks, of repetitive conversation -
the same questions, same memories, same stories.
Still,
you remember that I have not been to see you in months.
Reproach in your tone,
‘I thought you moved.’
But I have been too busy,
searching for solitary moments in my spare time,
seeking space,
whilst you are trying to fill it.

The days tick over.

Last week, we met on our road,
your nose was scabbed.
I thought you’d had a skin cancer removed
but you’d fallen
on a walk,
in the middle of the day
and not one car
stopped or helped.
Maybe they didn’t see you
passed out on the grass.
Face first.
Maybe no one drove by.

When you came to
you got on with things
and walked back to your place.
‘I’m not going into a home.’
You know your mind.
‘The doctor told me I wouldn’t remember anything by Christmas.’
You proved him wrong.

The days tick over.
The days tick over.

‘It’s not a heatwave.’
You tell me during a week of thirty five degree heat.
‘It’s not hot and I don’t need an air conditioner.’
I had thought of bringing ice-cream,
instead, we boil the kettle.
My imaginings of the elderly susceptible to heat induced death
melt away.
You used to knit but it’s harder to do that
since that rotten dog attacked Bella
and you got your fingers caught in its collar.
Twist, crack!
One broken finger later, one week in hospital later.
‘Do you know he never apologised, the owner.’
We sip tea and ruminate over the sheer callousness.

The day, the days
tick over
and over
and over.
The day ticks over.
Sssssss.
The wind is picking up.


* * * * *

Nicola Pett has a Masters in Journalism and Mass Communications and a Bachelor of Arts in Performing Arts. She has worked as an actor, voice-over artist, writer and creative producer. She currently teaches English and Literature in Cairns, Australia. Nicola lives with her husband and three children in the rainforest.