The Soliloquy of an Octogenarian
written by: Dr Santosh Bakaya
I sit here, looking at the world from my wheelchair.
Life is fair, at times also unfair.
This chair is my friend for all seasons.
I see a profusion of tender leaves all around.
Is that a flutter of wings; are the angels eavesdropping?
Or merely stopping to see how I am faring?
A bunch of kids squealing, sparrows hopping,
the gardener mopping the sweat from his brow.
The sun is at its fiery best.
Why are the birds fidgeting in their nest?
Why do I feel as though I am a thousand years old?
I just turned eighty-nine. A wingless bird.
Can I not be lifted up – softly – ah so softly?
On gossamer angelic wings?
Do I see the silhouettes of angels
descending from the clouds?
Do they have magic wands in their hands?
Why this intense yearning? This churning in my heart?
The walls are faded, and so are the pictures on the walls.
And a jaded old man waits.
The night falls, and a nocturnal bird calls.
I suddenly remember Heidi,
and her wheelchair-bound friend Clara.
One day, maybe I will be able to walk like her?
I break into a string of giggles
at the absurdity of it all.
An owl hoots, an understanding hoot.
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