The old man drifted into another nap with a single comforter draped over his legs. He was fine with the many naps. He preferred them. Every moment wanted so much from him. He was to know the time of day, where he was standing, what he was supposed to say. It was very much for the tired man. He had lived so long already, and had thought so many thoughts. Every moment now seemed to criticize him. He felt it in the eyes spread across the room. Always asking, always wanting. Sleep had never taken much, or asked him for much of anything. And the old man was very tired.
A particularly loud visitor woke him. It was a man even older than he. It was the older man who didn’t sleep much and who wore overalls, whom had always worn overalls. The older man’s hands were purple and leathery.
“What’s he saying?” the older man could only yell, it seemed. “Is he speaking Spanish?”
The old man looked straight ahead and sighed.
“He doesn’t speak Spanish,” one of his little ladies said.
“Well I sure can’t understand a damn word he’s saying.”
The old man felt a collective sigh when his angel grabbed his hand. It was his woman. She was squeezing his hand tighter as of late. It was she whom he loved more than anything in this world. Her grip relaxed him again, and he rested his head on the pillow.
His two little ladies had been trying to tell him something lately, but the old man refused to hear them, if they wouldn’t hear him in return. He told them again and again: about how much history had occurred here, how much would be made here. This was home. He had struggled to say it many times, his angel always interpreting for reasons beyond his understanding.
Many people visited him. People from his past that he hadn’t seen in years stopped by his bed and held his left hand, his right always gripped by his woman’s. She slept often as well. He enjoyed the many visits and hand holding, and the speaking with eyes that seemed to be more effective now than the speaking of words.
Then a morning came where everyone was hustling about. Even his angel was up early and speaking with his two little ladies who grabbed this and that, and disappeared again and again. He drifted in and out, and watched them in a daze of indifference. What ever they were doing would change little. He and his angel had been here for years, and would be here for years to come.
“I’m sick! I can’t take care of you anymore!” His angel spoke loudly. The words struck his mind and scattered like water on rock. It was hard for the old man to piece them together. He was tired. His eyes closed and he drifted off again, comfortable in the cool morning air.
They opened to see a young man drinking coffee beside his bed. It was himself, distorted a bit, but he was sure he saw himself there. The young man said, “Good morning,” and raised his coffee cup, to which the old man inclined his head and chuckled. The two shared smiles. It was a simple enjoyment, and the old man fell back asleep in the calm.
He awoke midday and shared more laughs with his two little women. A great deal had occurred and the old man was very confused, but his woman was beside him and, though the new smell bothered him a great deal, the large plates of food did not. There were still visitors, and her hand was still there, holding his, every night.
Until one day, when she was gone. The plate of food came but the old man did not touch it. He wanted answers. He wanted his angel. Three times he was caught by the nurses and brought back to his room. But the angel wasn’t in his room, so he had nothing to do but leave again.
It was in the middle of the night when the old man shuffled past the preoccupied security guard, beyond the stressing nurse, and out the back door. The old man had forgotten his slippers. It was the first time in five years he had done so, but it was also the first night in half a century without his angel. He felt her, out there, somewhere. He followed her voice, and she sang in his ears.
A warm breeze tossed the little hair he had left. His shuffle made it hard to go quickly and he worried he would miss her. A great roar filled the night air. Booming thunder. The old man glanced upwards to see the clouds flash and ignite. He chuckled.
These things of the world—the lightning, the thunder, the great purple clouds, and the warm summer breezes—there were part of the life that he had loved. And he loved them now. But now the old man grew very tired, even more so than past mornings when he couldn’t rise for the day. The breeze was peaceful after all, and the tall grasses were soft, so the old man laid down and shut his eyes.
“Oh John, napping out here under the clouds. Isn’t that just wonderful?”
The old man grinned and gave his heartiest chuckle yet. His angel was here. She was young. And her skin was soft. She stood there smiling.
The old man got up to find his legs strong, and his eyes sharp. But, what surprised the man most of all, was that her words did not spread like water on rock. They were there in front of him, plain as can be, as plain as the many cases he had presided over when he wielded the gavel. They were as plain as the great purple clouds above them.
The old man rose forever old and forever young. He took his angel’s hand, and ran off with the woman of his dreams amongst the tall grasses under the booming thunder.