What are your golden days? — @belleartmovementBelle ART Movement
by Alina Simu
Old mother is sitting alone on a Saturday night, looking out the window to see the rain falling over the busy street. Teenagers are dressed in clothes that don’t provide enough heat, but they don’t even seem to shiver or to care for the pouring rain. They walk at the same speed, hanging around with their group of friends, laughing at everything they come across. Of course, there are some teens in that group who just chuckle because they think they’re too mature for this kind of behavior. They will soon find out that joy has nothing to do with the level of maturity you have or how intelligent you are. What a waste of time is to try to appear superior to others only to find yourself one day surrounded by emptiness!
She remembers the time she was so young, so unbelievable young that she thought that the days of old age would never rise over her soul. She used to wear miniskirts and see through tops, regardless of the looks she got, oh how she flipped off the middle aged men who were staring at her. She always found most men disgusting, it wasn’t necessary their fault, but their fathers fault that they raised them to be like this.
The old lady wonders around the house, almost forgetting what she wanted to do – a thing that happens more and more often to her. But she sees the tail of her ginger cat and now she remembers that she wanted to read a book. She sits in her chair, waiting for her fluffy companion to settle in her lap. The book she’s reading reminds her of an old fling she had while she was in college, so it warms her heart a bit. When did all the characters in the books she reads become younger than her?
With a gentle ring, the clock strikes seven o’clock in the evening. The woman’s book fell into her lap, over the sleeping cat. Her eyes, closed shut, wander over the kitchen that she sees in her dream. She’s now back in the first apartment she lived with her husband, one of the very few men she didn’t find disgusting. The dream plays a memory of her, him bringing her flowers, kissing her cheeks, while talking to her about some irrelevant stuff.
The ghost of him visits her dreams more and more often. She feels as death is making her way up to her, but she’s not scared. What else can she do? Her golden days have slipped away, as yours will too.