Losing to the quietness.

I haul myself out of the car. Can’t put it off any longer. I grab the flowers and card and force a suitable bright and breezy look into my worn-out face. No one will notice, they never do. I have learned to wear this mask over the years. I wouldn’t know how to take it off even if I dared. And I don’t.

The home smells of cleaning fluids mixed with desperation, old age and fear. Some bright spark has painted the walls a sunshine yellow. Inwardly, I roll my eyes, as if yellow walls will suddenly make everything ok.

I smile as I sign the visitors book, dodging the gaze of Clive who believes he is being kept against his will. He tells me he plans to escape. This is not a geriatric James Bond. Clive wears jogging trousers. The only thing shaken and not stirred is his grip on reality.

I’m guided, as aways, to the same chair, at the same table with the view of the tomatoes Dad used to tend. They won’t flourish this year.

Tea is offered. I don’t like tea, and so as always, I politely decline. I sit and wait. My mother looks half asleep. Maybe that makes easier. She doesn’t look up. Most of the residents are alone.

 Bill never has visitors, but he always seems cheerful. He catches my eye

“Have I seen you down the pub?” he asks. I laugh.

“I don’t think so, I’m here to visit mum.”  He will probably ask every 10 mins or so. Bless him.

I glance at the clock; Graham comes in angry and muttering profanities. Before you know it has upended the plate of biscuits. A jammy dodger rolls off the table. Bourbons look like fallen soldiers. I am not sure what the point is of his war on the teatime assortment. No one asks him, nor do they try and stop him.  Perhaps like me he doesn’t like all this tea drinking. Maybe they should offer him a coffee. Although on second thoughts I don’t know if a caffeinated Graham would go nuclear.

Irene, sitting opposite just carries on folding the napkins. She appears to be on some sort of labour program. She neatly folds each one in half and once she has finished, she tips them all up and starts again. Finding comfort in a never-ending laundry cycle.

A cup of tea is placed in front of my mother; she seems to spring into life and slurps it down. I show her the card and flowers. A flicker of something cuts across her face.

She reads the card “Happy Birthday mum”

But the spark I almost glimpsed has gone. This is it. The moment I have dreaded. I’ve known it was coming. Inevitable. You can’t stop the sun setting no matter how much you scream so I don’t.

“I never had any children” she says.

“That’s a shame mum” I reply.