End of the Road (5 page)

In front of her is a man who seems to think
he is in line for a complaint department. Evidently, the line is
not moving fast enough for him, and he is feeling inconvenienced.
If I had to guess what was going through his mind, I would say that
he’s running through a list of grievances that he was going to
rattle off as soon as someone had the decency to give him a little
service.

Another man appears quite miserable, as
though burdened with a weight he had been meaning to get rid of for
a very long time. Even now, it seems, he does not know how to let
it go.

Most of the people here are quiet, although
a few of them speak words of encouragement to their neighbors,
exhibiting the kind of friendliness I had always admired but never
possessed.

There is a couple holding hands: apparently,
they must have died at the same time. They appear at times as
children, then adult, then elderly. There almost seems to be an
aura about them as though their separate identities were not as
important as the unity they possessed.

I see a woman lost in worry, weaving webs of
tragedy about herself. For every opportunity for hope, she places
in front of it a wall of reasons not to, making of herself the
center of an elaborate maze. There is no reason for hope in which
she cannot find obstruction. And though I see a woman trying to
console her, her eyes are transfixed on her convictions of
doom.

Further down the line—closer to judgment—is
a woman who is welcoming her own martyrdom as the means to her
salvation. To everyone in line, she is telling the story of how she
has sacrificed her life for her son. She tended to his every need
in life, exchanging her happiness for his. I see her as a young
mother, and the glow about her is warm and healthy. But if I see
her as she is older, the aura about her seems sickly, as though her
relationship has become unhealthy. She is unwilling to let go, to
allow her child to become what he should be. It is though she sees
her child as an appendage of herself rather than a separate living
thing. The light of her aura is all on one small aspect of her,
seems to be reaching out in a single direction like an umbilical
cord. And as she talks, I cannot help but feel that it is not her
son that is her concern but her martyrdom. She gives only in order
to get. It is her need she feeds.

An old man—yes, he is only old—rushes about,
trying desperately to change his predicament. He is lost in
purposeless action, as though it did not matter what he was doing,
merely that he was doing something. I can’t help feeling that there
is really nothing for him to do; it is too late for him…

Even as I think this, the nothingness
beneath my feet becomes apparent once again, and I feel as though I
am falling. The thought occurs to me that I am here to be judged,
and not to judge others. Somewhere in my mind, it occurs to me that
I should no more be judging myself than I should others—that
judgment is not my job—but shame and guilt drive the thought from
me. I am one among many, but I feel alone. Of all those who to my
eyes appear lost, I am as lost as any. The feeling of getting ready
to take a final exam that I have not studied for hits me. I never
understood my life while I was living it; life was always going at
a quicker pace than I would have liked. And now at the end of it
all, I still don’t know what it was I was doing, what I was
supposed to do.

In trying to walk upon these clouds, I feel
like Peter trying to walk upon the water. My initial success does
not last, and now it seems as though the clouds rise up as I begin
to sink. What throughout my life did I build that would serve as
some sort of support for me now? Religion? My parents had given me
a Christian upbringing, a set of beliefs and commandments. I knew
right from wrong and was expected to act upon that. But that
background was in my distant past. Perhaps it gave me fertile soil
in which to grow, but I long ago dismissed it so that it would not
prevent the branches of my life to grow as they wished. My roots
may have been well-planted, but I would not let dogma dictate my
reaching for the truth, whatever that truth might be. I was not
willing to let my growth be determined the way a shoot is
determined by a stake it is tied to. I was willing to let go of the
secure path in order to…

In order to what? There was something there,
wasn’t there, something guiding me even as I let go of all creed
and canon in my pursuits? That is the definition of faith after
all, isn’t it, to let go of the known in order to proceed into the
unknown with hope? When I left religion behind, something important
remained with me, the spirit so often obscured by the letters that
hold it. Right?

What a desperate situation I must be in that
I am relying on intellectual arguments. There should be some sort
of feeling in my heart, in my soul, but all I have is confusion and
dread. How is it that I have never found some kind of true
understanding in all of my years of existence? After all, I really
did care, really did look for answers amongst the endless
diversions and distractions that life threw my way. Beyond the
endless pursuit of the opposite sex and the desire to be noticed
and countless sugary snacks that fed both physical and emotional
desires, I always had a desire to be true to myself and to a higher
ideal. Didn’t I? Yes, I really believe I did. And while I didn’t
forsake all earthly treasure in order to tend to lepers, I always
tried to give a little more than I gave. What the hell are the
criteria, anyway, are only the top ten percent allowed in? Is it
only those who got an ‘A’ in the classroom of life that get in, or
am I accepted even with a ‘D-‘ just so long as I did not fail?

Part of me thinks that I judge myself, that
how I feel inside is how God sees me, that if I approve, He will do
the same. After all, only the two of us know my true intentions and
how I really feel. It is only the two of us who have seen what I
have done when nobody else was watching. But I can’t see how either
God or myself is supposed to make anything from the muck that I
feel is my inner self. It is a jumbled mess of thoughts too shrill
to be articulate.

“
It will be
okay.”

At first I believe the voice to be coming
from God Himself, so wrapped am I in my own thoughts. Then I
realize that it has come from someone in the line behind me. I turn
to look and see a bearded man who appeared to have been a sailor—or
perhaps a farmer—someone who had spent most of his life in the
elements. There is a quiet confidence in his eyes, giving me a
confidence I never could have found in myself. At other times, this
sort of man could have caused me to doubt myself. Comparing myself
to someone so earthy, so strong both physically as well as
spiritually, might have caused my insecurities to rise, and with
insecurity would have come envy and a host of other ugly
sentiments. But he was talking directly to me, giving freely of
himself without any obvious personal gain. It is almost as though
he is giving to me from his overabundance of soul, my soul filling
from his overflowing cup. It strengthens me, fills me with a
new-found hope, until I feel myself almost overflowing with a
gentle confidence. I find that I too have an abundance, an
abundance that is reaching out to another. I approach the woman who
is busy finding negative answers to the hope that others try to
provide for her condition. I give her my understanding, my
realization that there is no answer except the one which one truly
desires. In time there appears on her face the faint trace of a
smile, and I am filled with more serenity than I experienced when I
had received a similar gift.

I am no more certain of my situation than I
was before, but I am less concerned by it. I await more patiently
what is to come, more appreciative of what I am experiencing in the
moment. And when at last I look up to find a man standing in front
of a great golden gate, I look at him with hope and openness. His
face is at first emotionless, but at length a smile appears on his
face. The smile reminds me of my grandmother, who seemed to have
the same smile, a smile that always made me willing to do anything
to please her. As he smiles, I can feel a smile opening up inside
of me in response. It starts in my chest and spreads its way out,
until all that I am is one big smile.

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For more information on James Rozoff and his
writing:

Within The Mind of James Rozoff

Chapter 5

Traveling Companions

By Anna J. McIntyre

“
We won’t need to see you
again for another six months, Mrs. Smith. How would November 8th
work for you?” The woman behind the counter at the doctor’s office
asked me.

November
8
^th
, how
in the hell would I know? They always asked me questions like that,
as if I actually knew what my plans would be six months down the
road. Perhaps the better question, would I even be alive in six
months to make any November appointment.

“
Yes, that would be fine,”
I told her.

“
Would you prefer morning
or afternoon?”

Let me grab my appointment calendar and see
what I’ve got booked for November 8th. Considering my recent social
schedule I might have something exciting planned, like a dentist
appointment, meet up with the eye doctor or a blood test.

“
Mornings would be best,” I
told her.

“
Oh, looks like you have a
birthday this week. Happy birthday!”

“
Yes, Saturday, thank you.”
I started feeling guilty for my silent annoyance. The girl was just
doing her job and she was trying to be friendly.

“
Oh, Mrs. Smith, there must
be a mistake in the records.” She frowned, as she glanced from the
file sitting next to her computer, up to my face.

“
Mistake?”

“
We must have noted your
year of birth incorrectly. We have it as 1928.”

“
No, that’s correct,” I
told her.

By her puzzled expression I knew what she
was thinking. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard it. Compared to
other women my age, I didn’t look like someone nearing her 85th
birthday. Good genes combined with the fact I never smoked, blessed
me with a youthful complexion.

Just because I don’t lead an active social
life – there are no trips to the senior center, bingo party or some
woman’s church group – doesn’t give me reason to neglect my
appearance. I’ve never considered going grey, and unlike my older
sister who has been wearing the same hairstyle for the last forty
years, my hairdresser keeps me discretely in style.

A decade or so ago I was my dentist’s first
patient to have her teeth whitened. It’s true; a bright smile
removes years from a person’s appearance. I’ve always taken good
care of my teeth. Until a year ago, I could boast (to just myself,
of course) that I still had them all. I suppose I technically still
do, but six months ago the dentist capped my two front teeth, due
to hairline fractures.

Weight also ages a woman. Too thin brings
out the wrinkles and too heavy, adds years. Unless illness befalls
me, I will never be willow thin like some women my age. I’m
probably ten pounds thinner than I was ten years ago. I try to eat
a healthy, well balanced diet. I regularly read the food labels
when grocery shopping, something that seems to annoy my daughter. I
wish she would pay a bit more attention to what she is eating.

I make an assertive effort to consume my
daily share of almonds, prunes, oatmeal and fruit to minimize my
need for pharmaceuticals. Unfortunately, my doctor insists I need
both blood pressure and cholesterol medications.

Glaucoma took my mother’s sight. Thus far
I’ve kept my glaucoma under control, yet the glare is becoming more
an issue of late, and I’ve asked my daughter if we can tint the
window in my sitting room. Currently, I am forced to keep the
curtains shut due to the blinding glare.

When I finally made it back to the waiting
room I found my daughter there. I wondered how long she had been
waiting. Normally she runs errands while I visit the doctor, and
she waits for me to call her on my cell phone before coming for
me.

I try to schedule my appointments so I’m not
too much of an inconvenience for Ann. She works from home, so her
schedule is flexible. Yet, I know how she hates running errands and
shopping. I gave up my driver’s license years ago. In truth, it was
not a great sacrifice. I learned to drive in my thirties and never
felt comfortable behind the wheel.

Going from the subdued office lighting to
the bright sunlight makes it difficult for me to see. My daughter
momentarily forgets that as she marches on ahead, leaving me
stumbling nervously on the sidewalk; I’m afraid I might trip. She
is forever telling me to stay off the step-ladder (which I need to
reach the top shelf in my closet), treating me like some foolish
child; reminding me I might break a hip. Ironically, if I break my
hip it probably won’t be from a step-ladder fall, but a sidewalk I
couldn’t maneuver.

Ann looked back to see where I was, and
obviously remembered her oversight. Rushing to my side, she guided
me by my elbow, apologized and then helped me to the car.

During the day, Ann spends hours in front of
her computer. When my son-in-law gets home in the evening, I try to
stay in my area of the house, so they can have some privacy. We may
reside under the same roof, but I spend little time with my
daughter. I wonder if she realizes how little time there really is
in life.

When we got home I was greeted by a phone
call from my older daughter, Carol. My husband and I were blessed
with two daughters, Carol and Ann. I’m grateful they are close,
like best friends. I love my only sister, but she and I have never
been close.