© Jen		Travel Back in Time
Written Work Poetry Thoughts Stories   Flying   In the Myths of Creation   Your husband has been killed   Invasion by the American pumpkin   Travel back in time   The story of us		I sigh, sitting down in my old comfortable armchair. The ageing of the chair works just the opposite of the ageing of myself. Where I grow hard and stiff it goes soft. I like this chair, it’s been with me a long time. I usually sit in it now from breakfast at six to lunch at eleven. Watching the people walk by my window down on the street is my great passion these days. Why is that? Because that is all I can do. I sit in my armchair, looking at the people, mostly younger than me, who rush on by my window. Sometimes I smile at them all. Sometimes I sigh to myself. There are days when I don’t speak to anyone. There are days when I don’t hear words spoken to me. Of course there is always the television, but those words were not spoken to me. It has happened that I call my bank only to listen to the computerised voice respond when I move money from one account to the other and back again. My life wasn’t always so empty. I had many friends. At one time I knew everyone who lived in my apartment building and I greeted them daily. All the many friends I used to have are long since dead now, like I should rightly be at 86 years old. Now my days are empty and my head is full. Full of images, memories, words and names, scents and feelings. When I was young my days were full. I had friends and suitors and a large family; sisters and brothers, cousins, aunts and uncles. Most of them are dead by now. I was the youngest child, I was pampered and loved. There were many children to play with where I grew up, I was never alone. It is, I think, a cruel fate for me to now have to spend my days alone. So I daydream. When I sit in my old comfortable chair and look out my window I picture myself at the various stages of my life that the people passing are living. Dreaming back to those days I relive them. Not always true to the facts I embellish, change or improve the true happenings in my life. I chuckle to myself as I sit, I talk aloud into my room answering the questions my mind pose, and I cry quietly to myself; but not often. Mostly I merely play the scenes out in my head. When I was young and strong I would race out of my apartment and down the stairs, rush across the yard to the gate, dash across the street and catch the bus I had seen pull up from my kitchen window where I had been eating breakfast. My pulse would roar in my ears and my heart would sink if I missed it, if I didn’t my heart would soar and my cheeks would glow, a healthy ruddy colour, as I fumbled for money in my pocket. Now, I must check the timetable in advance. Now, I sit down on my hallchair to tie on my ortopedic. Now, I must take out my walking aid and walk out my door, closing it carefully. Now, I must ride the elevator five steps down to the yard level. Now, I must negotiate the yard filled with children’s toys, bicycles and dog droppings cautiously. Now, it takes me half a minute to step up in the bus and I have my money counted out and ready in my hand. Now, I rarely take the bus. Instead I stay at home, sit down in my favourite chair and watch the people passing by.