2715. Despicably-rotten

Don’t get me wrong. Nikita was alert as can be; it’s just that she was paralysed from the neck down. It had been a terrible accident. She had lost her ability to move and her ability to speak. She was trapped in her own body.

But that wasn’t the worst of it. After several gruelling months in the hospital her parents came and took her home. Except – they weren’t her parents. She didn’t know where her real parents were. These “pretend parents” took her home because they wanted the government handout and the compensation. They got it. And boy! did they spend it on their despicably-rotten real-life daughter named Matilde.

 Nikita was propped up each day in front of the television. Day after day she saw the same advertisements and the same repeats. It was an excruciating cross to bear. You’d think being doctors her pretend parents would know better, but Matilde (their despicably-rotten real-life daughter) was going blind. Apparently Nikita was a compatible organ donor.

2390. A visit to the optometrist

I didn’t have a clue just how attractive the optometrist was until she put lenses on my eyes as part of the diagnosis process. And to think she’d been messing around with my face for the last half hour, testing this and that, and getting me to read letters on a wall chart.

Goodness! And what pleasant banter she went on with. So skilled at small talk, and yet she seemed genuinely interested in what I did – how I filled in my time.

And her dress sense! She knew how to dress. She was both fashionable and geared for work. The exact right mix.

“Was she local?” Indeed she was. In fact she lived with her parents “just down the road”. With her parents! There was no hubby in sight, she told me. Quite the marriageable age. In her mid-twenties I would guess.

She was aiming to start her own optometrist business one day. In the next town. That was where I lived! She was saving up to achieve her dream. I almost told her there and then that I would pay for it! Being a bachelor I had plenty of money that needed spending.

Of course, she took the lenses off and all I could see were fuzzy shapes. I shouldn’t be driving apparently; at least not until the prescription glasses arrived possibly in a few days to a week’s time.

I thanked her very much and left. But I couldn’t get her out of my mind. I would like to have asked her out on a date. I only wish I wasn’t in my mid-eighties.

2381. Something in the eye

What will the Chinese come up with next? The raw meat market in Wuhan saw a mutation in toad flesh. An edict went out: Do not eat raw toad flesh unless you are planning to travel overseas. Too late! Too late! The virus spread.

Here was a highly contagious virus that attacked the tear ducts in the eyes. The Government issued a decree: All supermarket shoppers must wear a bandana over their eyes. This not only protects the wearer from air-floating globules, but also slows down the transmission of the disease. Who would want to go blind? It is much healthier to feel your way around the supermarket.

When shopping, the meat section was particularly hazardous. Chicken breasts feel remarkably like pork schnitzels if one is not used to it – much to the feigned chagrin of Ms Maisie Cornblatt who happened to be in the meat department at the time Mr. Cranville Picklesen was feeling his selection.

The fruit department was another challenge for Mr. Cranville Picklesen. All he wanted were two apples, but he wasn’t sure if what he was feeling were apples or pomegranates. Ms Maisie Cornblatt, who by now had also come to the fruit and vegetable section, was pretty sure she knew what was what, but she couldn’t help out as she was having too much trouble trying to locate a cucumber.

Next, Mr. Cranville Picklesen went to the aisle with spreads. So did Ms Maisie Cornblatt. Clearly they had similar tastes. “It’s very difficult to know if one is picking up a jar of honey, of peanut butter, or of strawberry jam,” said Mr. Cranville Picklesen to Mrs. Lily Brown. “Oops! Yoo-hoo! I’m over here,” called out Ms Maisie Cornblatt. “I’m in the pink dress with the matching bandana. Not that anyone can notice.”

Cranville groped his way towards Maisie’s voice. “Honey!” said Ms Maisie Cornblatt.

“Is that a honey pot you have found or a term of endearment?” asked Mr. Cranville Picklesen. “The only way to test what you’re buying is to take the lids off the jars and use your fingers.”

Maisie accidentally put her fingers into a jar of vegemite thinking it could be orange marmalade. Yuk! That was when their bandanas accidentally fell off.

Mr. Cranville Picklesen and Ms Maisie Cornblatt laid eyes on one another.

2251. The eyes have it

Upon the birth of her baby Desdemona was horrified: her baby had three eyes. Everyone said the baby looked like its father, but all that Desdemona could see were three eyes. It was indeed a deformity that couldn’t be corrected.

Only a few commented on the three eyes. Most were polite and coo-cooed at the “lovely baby”. But it wasn’t lovely; it was hideous. One or two offered a cruel joke by way of coping. Things like: Peek-a-boo, I see a twinkle in its eyes.

Eyes in society are not only for seeing; they are things of beauty. Eyes come in different colours. Some wear coloured contact lenses to complement their hair colouring. Some wear makeup – mascara and eye shadow and artificial eye lashes.

Desdemona and her husband came from different worlds. Her husband’s planet was renowned for its eyes. In fact her husband had eleven eyes and Desdemona had hoped that some of his genetic material would have rubbed off on wee Billie. It was disappointing. Despite his eleven-eyed father Billie would be saddled with only three eyes for a lifetime.

2232. Aunt Josephine’s painting

I’d always liked the painting Aunt Josephine had on her dining room wall. I don’t know why I liked it, but I did. It was simply a portrait of an unnamed woman. It was painted in oils, waist up. Her eyes stared out directly into the room. I was delighted when I was left the painting in Aunt Josephine’s will.

I too hung it on my dining room wall. It was on a side wall behind where the head of the table would sit – not that we followed such a custom. We sat where we liked. On one of the longer walls was the fire place, and on the wall opposite the fireplace was an expansive window. The lady of the painting overlooked the table; the fireplace to her right; the window to her left. It was as if the portrait had been painted especially for the room.

Not long after I had hung the painting, my sister visited. She knew I had been given the painting. Where is it?

“It’s in the dining room,” I said. “She overlooks the table.”

We went there, and the lady’s eyes were no longer looking straight ahead. She was looking out the window. It was creepy.

I soon took the painting down. I didn’t like to store it in the attic for who knows if it would go bump in the night. It was possessed.  I burnt it in the fire. Bit by bit. I remember especially burning the piece with the eyes.

That evening, when we sat down to eat, the picture was back up. Entire. Complete. The eyes were staring steadfast and cold at the fireplace. And her lips had a smile that wasn’t there before.

Poem 93: Yet another poem about a dead cat

My cat woke me at four each morning.
She would jump on the bed and claw the pillow
right next to my eyes.
I would wake, fearful for my sight.
Would I never again see the day slip over the hill?
Would I never again see the moon slip over the hill
or the barley field wave in the wind?
Perhaps by patting the cat I could doze a little longer.
Bloody cat.

Fourteen years ago,
on a night I could not sleep,
I rose from bed at four and fed the cat.
Breakfast at four became her rite, her right.
Bloody cat.

Last year she was sick.
The veterinarian said
“That’ll be one hundred and thirty dollars please.”
I gave up wine and stuff for a month to pay for it.
That bloody cat was more of a nuisance than I ever imagined.

Last week she died.
If she came back I’d let her scratch out my eyes.

To hear the poem read click HERE!

1069. A possible spectacle

Horace was all of ninety-four. He’d had the same pair of spectacles for thirty-two years. He thought he should get his eyes checked again. He was starting to have trouble reading the small print.

“I don’t want to die an early death by not being able to read the harmful sodium percentage on food packaging,” said Horace.

He made an appointment with an optician. The optician was nice enough, but she was very brusque.

“I haven’t got time to mess around,” she said. “Would you mind taking off your glasses.”

“I haven’t had anyone ask me to take something off in years,” said Horace.

The optician laughed. After that she wasn’t half so brusque.