A Car for John

This is fiction, written for The Speakeasy at Yeah Write.

Submissions for this week must be under 1000 words and must begin with the following line: Blowing bubbles in milk always feels good.

In addition, your submission must reference the photo prompt, which is this image:

This is my submission. It’s called “A Car for John”

Blowing bubbles in milk always feels good.  That is what the nurse told me about John.

“Oh, he just loves doing that,” the nurse explains.  “Its like the highlight of his day.  He has this cute smile while doing that, like he is going to get in some kind of trouble.  The staff all knows what he does with his milk.”

Another nurse walks into the room.  “Time to change that diaper John.”  She turns to me and ask “that’s ok with you Mrs Bellamy?’

“Sure,” I reply.

It’s hard to believe he is here.  You never expect this to happen to anyone in your family.

“Nurse, I am going to step outside for a few minutes.  I want to get something in my car.”

I lean over and kiss John on the forehead.

“Thanks for coming,” he says again.

“I’ll be right back, I promise.”

I turned and walk out into the hall.  I think to myself  how guilty I feel even leaving him for a few minutes.  I walk through the hall and out the door.  It’s a beautiful day out.  The sun is shining brightly as I across the parking lot.  I hear a bird singing in a tree nearby.  As I get to my car, I lean against it listening to the mockingbird’s beautiful songs.  It is from my time with John that I learned about birds. I learned a lot from him.  I turn and unlock the car door, grab my laptop and kleenex.  I close the door and walk away.  The mockingbird’s song slowly fades as I reach the front door.  The song is still in my head as I arrive in his room.  It has eased my mind some. 

“Hi” he says excitedly.

My heart aches to see him in that bed.  He’s not supposed to be in here.  It’s not supposed to be like this.  My eyes start to tear up as I look at him.

“Hi,”  I say back to him as I reach his bed.

Now I am alone with him.  It’s the first time we are together without a doctor or nurse here.  Just the two us.  What do I say?  This is my first visit since he was brought here last week.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“I’m your daughter, Irene.  I came from Florida to see you.”

“Did you bring my hotwheel car and street matt with you?

“I did not Dad, I am sorry.”

His face turns quickly from happiness to sadness.  He begins to cry.  What do I do?  This is my father?  He is just like a child.  He has no idea who I am.  I get up quickly and walk out the room to look for the nurses station.  I find the nurse who was in his room when I arrived.

“He’s crying,” I say to her.

“Oh Mrs. Bellamy, he will be fine.”

“Fine.  You call that fine?”

“Mrs. Bellamy, your father is in stage six of Alzheimer’s,”  she explains.  “I know it’s hard, but he is still your father.  This is normal behavior for someone at his stage of the disease.  He will be well taken care of here.”

My father, leader of men.  Well respected in the community.  Church going.  Great family man.  Now asking me for a hot wheels car.

I collect myself and head back into his room.  He barely even looks my way and says nothing.  I can’t bear to look at him in this condition.

“Goodbye Dad, I must go now.  I’m sorry, so very sorry.”

“It’s ok Irene, I understand.”

My heart pounds in my chest.  Is that him?  Tears of guilt are now flowing down my cheeks.  He knows me.  He knows I am here. 

He looks over at me and with a big grin says, “You are beautiful!  Who are you?

I kiss his forehead again.  “Dad, I am beautiful because of you.  It doesn’t matter who I am.  Just know that I love you.  Goodbye.”

“Goodbye Irene.”

As I exit the facility towards my car I still hear the mockingbird singing.  He mimics the songs of others birds.  Songs that are not his.  Yet, he is still sings so beautifully.  Does he even have his own song?  Even if he doesn’t, he still is a mockingbird.  I suppose my father is like that now.  He is singing different songs but none of them his.  But he is still my father.  I’ll never hear him sing his own song again. 

Color The World

Copyright-Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

WELCOME TO FRIDAY FICTIONEERS WHERE EVERY PICTURE TELLS A STORY

We are a growing community of blogging writers who come together each week from all parts of the globe to share individual flash fictions from a single photo prompt (above). The prompt goes up early Wednesday morning  CST to give each writer time to compose a story by Friday. Some use the photo as a mere inspiration while others use it as an illustration. Use your imagination and think outside the box.

I suppose this is not quite the fiction genre, but just words on a page.  Forgive me for the creative license i took.  This is very differnt than I usually write.  I saw the contrast between the crayons and the black and white photo.  That was my inspiration for my writing I call:  Color the World.

Color the world
Take it from black and white
and give it  many colors.
So we can see the world through human eyes
and not eyes of an old camera.
So beautiful and full of contrast.

Color the world
Make people more than black and white.
Bring those old photos to life.
So we can see the difference in people
and appreciate everyone as they are.
So we can be as one.

Color the world
Throw color onto a canvas
and let me see the beauty you create.
Like a kid with crayons
in class many years ago.
Simplistic yet so beautiful.

Color the world. 
Using your mind and imagination.
To make this earth a more beautiful place.
To give the world diversity,
And acceptance to these colors.
As God intended it to be.

Till we meet again.  Good Day.

Mind of Shoo