I Think at First
The 1,000-year-old man furrowed his brow. The furrow – of course – could not be seen among the
many already in place. Such a slight frown could scarce begin to shift the weight of all that practised flesh.
He licked his lip with a slow tortoise tongue. It was bad, this dying business. No one to feed him. No one even to hydrate him. They used to bring occasional sponges – square cubes that soaked up no more than half a teaspoon of water. His daughter used to press them to him. He lapped them like the finest whisky. They made him just as delirious.
Then she died. He was told, though he couldn't hear the words. He knew she was frail. They looked so alike, the two of them. More and more alike, the older they got. Both entirely bald, with the same softened eyes and thinness. Sometimes the nurses pretended they couldn't tell them apart. Thirty years made little difference after a thousand of living.
She simply stopped being there. He was too weak to wheel in to see her. Perhaps they thought it might finish him off? And if they were right?
He'd wanted to die a long time now. He'd stopped accepting the sponges, though he dreamed of them, sometimes. They tried his arms for a vein, but the needle fell out.
Now he waited to desiccate. His heart was horribly strong.
13/3/2008
Faustine
Emma Tennant, 1992
p 55
Comments