All about the words

The word was there somewhere in his head but try as he might, he couldn’t quite grab it.

That is what it was like these days. Words were like tropical fish in an aquarium.

Swimming past, they were beautiful, individual, tantalising.

Some swam in pairs like a matched set, but often they were illusive, ducking behind weeds and grey rocks just when they were needed the most.

He could almost feel the pigment draining out of his hair with the frustration of it all.

*****

The days stretch out in an endless corridor of white linoleum. And then there are those blue-garbed figures speaking in hushed tones pattering around me. Like an efficient, unruffled force of minions, armed with thermometers and medications – they take care of my every need.

I can still think in sentences, well, most of the time.

I know something catastrophic has happened, but I’m not sure what it was.

Some of them call me Frank so I guess that’s my name, but I don’t like it much.

Surely, I’m not a Frank.

Bruce Wayne or Clark Kent – sound much more familiar to me.

The woman who visits every day wouldn’t be seen with a Frank. She isn’t young but she’s beautiful. And her voice, it’s just like…that stuff…rich, sweet, warm.

She reads to me every day, so I guess she is invested in me

And every day, I smile at her, flicking through all the ideas of words I want to say to her.

They never come out the way I want.

I heard a pair of blue coats laughing the other day. They said I had been mumbling, “kind chicken” to the woman as she left.

I think about that for a long time.

*****

It had been an ordinary day. Frank was running late for work, but there was nothing unusual about that. We had been talking about our holiday plans and he was really excited. We would be heading to Europe, London first and then on to Spain and Italy. It was a holiday five years in the making.

The trip was going to be our try-out for retirement. Frank’s plan was to write something in every city. He thought a guide for adventurous older travelers was missing from the market. He would start it on this holiday, but the long-term plan was to travel a lot more and write a lot more.

Then there was his idea for a website and maybe even a podcast – he was brimming with it all, chatting away, plans coming at me like a fountain.

This was my Frank in full flight, glorious, loquacious, a force of nature. The last thing he needed was a cup of coffee so I had made tea and toast and he was snacking on it when he dropped me off at the station.

That was six months ago.

The crash had been one of those traffic accidents where no-one seemed to be clearly in the wrong – but it was devastating. The other driver wasn’t wearing a seatbelt and was thrown clean through his windscreen and onto the road. His face was a mess but apart from a few broken bones, he wasn’t too bad.

But Frank had taken a wicked blow to the head and was crushed inside the car for hours before they pulled him out, broken arms, broken legs, broken ribs, he was hanging on to life by a thread.

In those hours and weeks straight after the accident I felt like a walking ghost, I was with him teetering on the edge of life.

And then he improved a little bit, and a whole new reality set in. The rehabilitation would be a long haul. His spine was intact so eventually he would walk again, the doctors said, but the hard yards were ahead.

They just couldn’t tell how long it would take, or if they could ever return Frank to me.

There was memory loss and for the moment it was severe.

But it was the loss of language that cut me to the quick. Frank was all about the words.

I found myself obsessing over the poems he had written me when we first started dating, the marriage vows that had been so moving and at the same time gave everyone reason to chuckle.

And over the years the random love notes he would slip into my handbag or the dresser drawer, little ambushes, just in case I forgot how much he loved me.

The doctors said I had to take things slowly and not expect too much.

So, every day after work I read to him. I hold his hand and wonder what he is thinking. I’m not sure he even knows who I am.

*****

She's here again, and she looks like sunshine walking through the door. I think I know her. I know, I know her but I can’t remember her name.

I smile and she smiles. She holds my hand and I feel warm and safe. I squeeze her fingertips and she cries. I hope I didn’t hurt her.

She starts to read, and a word comes to me – floating at eye level in front of me. I look at her and catch the word in my mouth.

“Chocolate,” I smile.

And her eyes grow wide and sparkly. She keeps reading and her words melt into me, and it feels good.

*****

When I got home, I raced to the box where I kept all of Frank’s love tokens – I needed to be sure I wasn’t just being hopeful.

But there it was…

(Monday, two days since I have seen you)

My darling one,

I will say just this, your voice is like chocolate, and I am addicted – call me. xxx Frank

It was no coincidence, it was a word in the right place, for the right purpose.

It was a connection, a connection to a thought from the past, an association with me. It was an incentive to keep trying.

So, I open the laptop and start writing. I am writing the story of us.

The day we met at a country wedding. How he saw me through a grove of pear trees. How he tore his pants scaling the tree, came over and introduced himself, presenting me with a perfect pear.

The dates we’d had. The trip to India where he proposed to me on a riverboat in Kerala. Our wedding day. The fun years when we were young and carefree. The failed attempts at starting a family. The tough years, the miscarriages, the sorrow. Our decision to start fostering children who needed our help. Those kids - the challenges they presented – the ones that stayed a week and those that stayed for years. The Christmases we still have with them. Our careers, him a marketing specialist and me running a small art gallery. Our plans to travel again.

I wrote it all down in one great torrent. It wasn’t the finest prose, but I did my best and the next day I read from Frank and Mary, 30 Good years, starting with that country wedding.

*****

And here she is again, reading to me about a farm in the country and fruit trees. I can taste that fruit right now. It quenches my thirst its so juicy and sweet. I can see it, golden green, firm on the outside, shaped like a tear.

I can feel its name on my tongue, its there, I am reaching for it in my mind. And as I look at her, the word bubbles from my lips.

Pear.

She smiles and I want to make her smile again.