Felicity

Felicity

The room was dirty.  But then, the room had always been dirty, the old man thought with a sigh.  Years ago, he had meant to clean it, but he had been unable to find the time.  He had time now, but not the strength.  He could hardly raise his head anymore, much less grasp a broom to clear his little world and remove spider in the corner and his web.  But then, he wondered, would I want to?  That spider has been there such a long time, almost as long as he had been here.  Or had it?  Maybe that was another spider.  Maybe…

He was drifting off again.  The doctor had warned him against it; he needed to try and focus, to keep his mind firm.  A firm mind!  It made him laugh, that the doctor should fear for his mind.  Once, he had been a man of towering intellect and lofty thoughts.  He had written great works, answered great questions with his pen and a bit of paper.  That was so long ago now. She wished him to write.  She had asked him to, just the night before.  What had he answered?  When I am stronger, child.  When my thoughts no longer flee from me; then shall I take my pen in hand again, then brighten the world with the light of my thoughts.  Light, light would be good… It was far too dark, why was it always so dark?  The lights were often lit in his room, but it had been so long since he had seen the sunlight. One could not live without light, as he had for so long.  Light and life, they go together perfectly.  Yet I have neither, thought the old man; they left me long ago.

Perhaps he should call for her, have her draw the curtain back… no, better let her be.  She had already done so much for him. She was so kind, so obedient. Besides, she would be tired now, since evening was settling in.  Wasn’t it?  It was always evening and always morning in this room, for time seemed to matter little, anyways. Whether the sun was rising or setting, he was alone.  At every hour, the same shadows, the same messes, the same spider in the corner with his empty web, empty as always.  Does he ever catch anything? the old man wondered.

His thoughts were interrupted by the door.  It swung, throwing a quick shaft of light into the room.  Light, and life as well.  Voices, laughter, and smells he’d long been apart from.  A world just beyond that door, but beyond him too.  Beyond him or past?  Both perhaps.

Light and life, the same old pair.  In swept both, in the form of her. Yes, here she was, Felicity, the eldest of his grandchildren, as well as his favorite.  Was it wrong to like her best?  No, for it mattered little anyway.  His opinions had ceased to matter long ago, back when he had first set his writing aside.  Until that day, people had trembled at his stern voice and the scoldings he delivered unto them.  But they had smiled too, hadn’t they?  When he had written kindly about them or given them praise, they had felt prouder than a victorious general.  His words once had such an effect. But no more. Now he sat alone and nearly forgotten in his dark little room. His children and grandchildren used to visit and brighten his dreary corner, but now there was only Felicity.

True, he liked Felicity best; but he was vindicated in this, for she liked him best as well.  They were very much alike, separated by years alone; he saw much of himself in her, and thought that a fine thing. They were like one soul separated into two bodies. The old man always admired her easy confidence and persistence. When she set her mind to something, there was no stopping her.  Felicity had a strong mind, a kind heart, and wrote brilliantly.  So different than that fool of a father she had.  He’d tried to teach him, make him think, but the boy had only ever liked numbers.  Perhaps it was the school’s fault; they’d taught him counting first, then reading.  He was a fine mathematician, but a fool.  One couldn’t converse intelligently with him, the way he constantly turned back to his stocks and statistics.  Safety in numbers, the old man thought to himself.

The light was on now.  The brightness hurt the old man’s eyes. Oh, she should have warned him!  Maybe she had, though; he had been lost in thought.  She was carrying a book- no, a notepad.  

“Grandfather!  How are you this morning?”- (so it was morning after all, then) -“I’ve brought you something.”  She set the notepad on his lap, a broad grin playing across her face.  He returned her smile.  How nice that he could see her; the doctor had told him to get glasses, but what did the doctor know?  His eyes were fine and strong.  Years of reading and writing had strengthened them beyond damaging, he was sure of that.

“And what have we here?” he asked her, “Your latest triumph?  Is it an essay, or a story?  Perhaps it’s a poem?”  She laughed and shook her flaxen curls.

He opened the book and beheld a blank page.  Maybe my eyes are going after all, he thought with a shudder.  He turned to the next page and the next, rifling through them all in speedy succession.  He turned a quizzical face towards Felicity.  

“Why, what’s this?  An empty book; is this what passes for a joke these days?”

Again she shook her head, “No, grandfather, it’s no joke.  It’s a gift!”

He eyed her in mock suspicion, “So, a gift.  But what for?  It cannot possibly be my birthday again; I’ve seen enough of those for a lifetime.”

She smiled at his joke (she was always so quick to smile).  “I got you this gift,” she lowered her voice to a whisper “so that you could write again.”

He started up. Oh! Much faster than he should have.  Why must backs hurt? he cried silently.  Better yet, why must anything hurt?  Why pain? Yes, he thought, why pain; but why joy, for that matter?

He turned his head away from her, shamefully, to watch the spider in the corner.  The spider moved less now than he used to.  And the web… it was still empty, after all this time.  Beautiful, but empty.  Was the spider dying as well?

“Write again?” he asked incredulously and looked to Felicity, who still sat eagerly nearby, waiting patiently for the answer, “My dear, I have told you many times-”  She could contain her excitement no longer.  

“Oh, I know, grandfather!” she whispered grandly, “But I hoped… I thought that if you held this paper, you would try once more.  For me!  Oh, grandfather, I’ve read your stories.  Your words could make the sun shine brighter, or the sea rush forward, or the wind howl aloud!”

She was quite out of breath, but her smile was enormous and imploring.  She has a gift with words, he thought, as I did once.  Once, long ago.  Was it many years?  Or merely days?  All time had broken; it did not enter his little room.

He reached out, tucked her hair behind her ear and said, in a quiet voice, “It has been a very long time since I wrote like that.”

Her smile faded.  That hurt him; he had not intended to make her sad.  Maybe, for her sake… but what would he write about?  What was there for him to pen?  He had said so much, for so long, that he was now spent of words.

“I have nothing to write about,” he whispered, hoping it wasn’t true.  “I – I would write of people, but I know them no more.  I would write of the world, but I am apart from it now.  I would write of peace or war, but both are mere words to me.  I would write of hatred, but I have none.  I cannot write of love, for all the words of the world cannot contain it.”  He paused and looked about his room, with its unending mess, familiar darkness, and the spider, sitting as always at his post.  “When I wrote best,” he told his granddaughter, “it was of things I knew about, and I know so little now. I cannot… I am sorry, my dear.”

Slowly, tenderly, Felicity shook her head.  “No,” she corrected him, “that wasn’t your best work.  I have read your stories, your essays.  Grandfather,” the smile had returned “I loved your writings best when you wrote about things you knew nothing about, and only thought you did.  I loved it best when you wrote about your hopes, your dreams; about things so big, you knew your writings couldn’t hold them.  But you wrote them anyway.  And as you wrote them, you came to know them.  And we- me and all the readers who ever saw your words on a page - came to know them, too. You inspire me to write, to try to fathom the great, unexplainable things of the world. And that is what I loved best.”

The grandfather smiled at her, a wrinkled, loving smile.  Yes, he had something to write about.  He would do it, once more.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the spider arouse itself as a fly stumbled into its web.  Once more, the spider would do what it was meant to do, as would he.  And then, they would each do what we are all meant to do in the end.

“Felicity,” he whispered excitedly, “hand me my pen.  I think I shall write about Death.”