I have just seen the last leaf of Autumn fall. I know it was the last because the large mulberry tree in my yard, the only tree I can be totally sure still exists, just stripped it's final covering, leaving itself tall, proud, and gracefully unaware of its nakedness. I cannot remember the last time I was naked.
This bed and I have become quite close these past three years. I know it has been three years because I see the calendar hanging beside the window that is directly across from the foot of my bed, in my line of view. I've seen you come in everyday and cross off yesterday, sigh, then turn to me, smile and begin your day.
Sorry dear. I'm afraid in my old age I've become a bit of a rambler.
Then again maybe I always was...
Well in any case I heard you father whisper to the doctor that he feels this bed has become my prison. Wish I could tell him it's quite the contrary actually. This bed, with it's soft covers, clean sheets, fluffed pillows (all thanks to you of course!) has become my home. The bed is lovely. It is my mind that has become the prison.
Dear, you can't even imagine how difficult this has been for me. My whole world has always been made up of words, and not I cannot talk, touch, smile... Really I'd be content to be able to blink at my own command! Anything to let you know you're right.
Oh yes, I know of your Uncle's, your Aunt's, you cousins, your friends, my friends, even you father. I know they have given up hope that I am still here. Oh yes, I do appreciate there visits, regular, perfunctory, and depressing. But you have always been different.
Everyday you take care of me, much the same as I took care of you Uncles and Aunts and your Father. And though I'm sure it has been hard for you you have never once made me feel like a burdon, or at all like a child. I love the way you speak to me, as though I am your living diary. You will not ever understand how much this means to me.
So dear, it is for this reason that I will tell you my story. I'm sure you've heard it embellished, exaggerated, downplayed and dramatized. You've heard it whispered, sung, yelled and breathed. But, dear this is a story that can only ever be truly told in writing. I cannot write, or dictated or in any other way communicate this story.
But please know, as I stare into you eyes as you begin my morning bath, that I am writing this story on you heart.
I feel as though the last speck of hope for me fell along with the last leaf of Autumn. The only part of the outside I have seen in years is that tree, and not it to is fading. I will tell you the story, I will hope you hear, and then perhaps I will finally be able to sleep restfully.
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