Then it was Spring Again
Meanwhile old man Augusto continued to talk about this and that, nothing in particular, different subjects, he liked to talk, he talked until at last Rosa realized his forgetfulness was evident (such as being upset and thinking 1000 soles were taken out of his savings account without his knowledge, and not knowing who the culprit was. But figuring there was one, he had been laying things down here and there in the past and forgetting where he placed them, and blaming others... but after a review of his account and Rosa being an accountant, things worked their way out be in proper order, he had forgotten he spent that 1000-soles ). This all came to a halt now, her father was getting confused, and with a sort of shock, and dismay, she knew that he was getting old (he had just mentioned in passing the other day, mentioned to Rosa and her husband, and perhaps reminding himself ‘All my friends are dead,’ evidently this had not occurred to him before).
It was a shock, for she had never associated senility with her father, who was so alive and agile at 89-years old, erect and brusque although, an uncompromising and kind human being; running to the horse races, and bringing back bread and bananas home at night. But the summer of A.D., 2010, with tiresome efficiency, it was evident. Yet he continued to go to the race track, reading the literature on the races a day ahead of time, writing down all the names of the horses, and figuring out, trying to figure out, who would win the next race—he was never too lucky on his selections, but it kept his mind busy, and that long walk kept him in physical shape I suppose. He acted pert near as if he was his own daughter’s age, all of fifty-one.
As so, she thought: ‘How much finer can life be,’ implying in her now approaching old age having your father still alive, ‘How much finer can it be!’
Uncomplaining, steadfast in her unwept glory; making him spaghetti at night and bread pudding, warming up foods, eggs for breakfasts; useless glamour to some, for her, trying to make him comfortable in his old age. And somewhere along the line, she’d die away, knowing she had done for him all she could have.
But she was serene in the year 2010—and her days centered more and more as her father drew nearer to that 90-mark. Although his voice was only a sound, that was comfortable to her, but without significance I suppose. Then it was (definitely) spring again…
Written 12-28-2010 (No: 651)
Dedicated to Rosa and Augusto
