The window was propped open again, letting in the fragrant stink of the city waft into the room. A breeze brushed past the old clock, plastic, hanging on the wall, stopped and with an inexplicable coffe stain on it; none of the orderlies or nurses knew where it was from, when it was put there-- perhaps it had always been there. The zephyr continued, flowing through the lungs of the man on the bed, arthritic hands struggling to put on the thin paper slippers. He finished pulling them on to the sound of sirens. They reminded him of music, from his childhood.
As he stood up, there may have been tears in his eyes, or perhaps they were blinking in the dust carried through the window.
Voices faded into his ear
"... to let souls in, God knows what he means..."
"... don't know, he's kinda..."
They faded away as they reached the door
The face of a young woman leaned in
"Hello Mr. Danson, would you like a walk today?"
His voice creaked like old hinges, long bereft of oil.
"If you don't mind."
She helped him up, when his knees refused to bend, she grabbed his cane from the table by the bed, handed it to him. He hobbled to the door, slowly regaining his balanced, knuckles white on the head of the cane, at least where there weren't liver spots. As he walked into the courtyard, brick walls blocking the life-force of the city, he stopped, suddenly. He looked over the door, at the faded sign, as he peered at the faded letters, he asked the woman what it said
"Saint Mauterstocks... Retreat."
He noticed the hesitation, ever so slight, and took off his glasses, moved his head.
" I was in the War, you know; a sharpshooter. I lived by these eyes, you know. I may be old, but I'm not dead yet. What's it say?"
A sigh.
"Saint Mauterstock's home for Dementia and Alzeimers Patients."
"Well, which am I?"
"Well, Mr. Danson, we're not really..."
"I suppose I can't remember how long I've been here, so I suppose it's Alzeimers. Boy is this spring air refreshing!"
He beamed at her, standing as tall as he could, back crooked, dingy robe around his frail figure, and she found she couldn't tell him it was winter. He shuffled to a bench, and sat down. He tried to listen to the birdsong, but realized it was the sirens he had heard earlier.
His bright eyes stared at her, boring into her skull
"What happened?"
"A horrible accident, but let's not worry about that now"
If she had dropped her smile, it would have shattered. He allowed her to steer him back to his room. He needed little help getting there, the "spring air" seemed to have woken some part of him, because he didn't seem to forget things like he had yesterday. When he got to his room, he unjammed the window, and closed it with some dificulty.
"I thought you always left your window open"
"I think I'll give up on waiting for souls to fly in for now."
His smile made her turn away; her shiver had very little to do with the temperature in he room, surprisingly cold. She turned up the thermostat when she left.
The nurses in the break room were clustered around the single TV, they hovered around it like moths around a streetlight.
"...heard the only fatality was an infant..."
"...so horrible, the mother must be..."
"... right through the red light, just no way..."
The chatter died down as the story wound to an end, and segueing into a cat litter ad.
Back in his room , Mr. Danson stretched, smiled. He felt like he had a whole new life inside him. The sirens outside faded away as the hours passed, and he was feeling better than he had in... years, really. His memories were almost coming back, and he was smiling. The next morning the nurse walked in, he was already out of bed.
"I feel like I'm a new man, today, maybe some more fresh air will be good for me, eh?"
"Of course Mr. ... Oh, Danson, so sorry, I've been out of it all day, didn't seem to get much sleep last night..."
"Not to worry, we all get old. Look at me-- I've outlived Methuselah!"
She looked at him, his innocent eyes.
She sat down, suddenly out of breath.
He listened to the sirens, and he remembered his childhood. There may have been tears in his eyes, or perhaps they were just bright, early in the morning
"I wish I could be young again, just for a while, but I suppose it's impossible, isn't it?"
She looked at him, couldn't meet his eyes. He laughed.
"Well, there's no time like the present, now is there?, no point in wishing on a star."
He hummed a tune under his breath, there might just have been tears in her eyes, or it could have been the wind.
