Within hours of writing this little story in a Beeston cafe called Metro I was in bed and in considerable pain. Two days later I was in hospital on a drip, being given antibiotics and painkillers plus a scan. I can trace my symptoms back eleven months, during which time I have been in hospital twice: a stroke and surgery in August, then a week with an inflamed gallstone in December, and in the background days laid up with crippling pain in my bowls, and on antibiotics of course. The garden has gone to pot and we went nowhere. Susan, my wife, has been an angel.
I came home last weekend ago with instructions to stay in bed and rest and yesterday I walked into Beeston with Susan. It is nice to be up and about. I have received a letter from the hospital which has diagnosed probable diverticular disease – something not uncommon among those like me coming up to 80. However, my bowls show no signs of the disease, which means follow-up tests. I am, it seems, ‘a bit of a mystery’, but Susan has been saying that of me forever!
The NHS website offers advice of how you should eat and, for me, it will not hard to change habits, as we already eat little process food apart from cooked meat and that will stop after tea today, when we will eat the last of the ox tongue in the fridge. I already prepare most meals.
A friend asked me if I was worried about the future and I had to reply ‘No’, saying that I saw all this present ill-health as me clearing the decks, so I got a clear run at my eighties. Anyway, enough of this. Time to post the story before preparing lunch – poached eggs with asparagus and buttered homemade bread toast, so lett the story begin…
Whilst the Candle Burns
'That's how long you have' the waitress said, pointing at the candle, 'Folk like you will take the place over if we let you.'
I had just sat down and ordered a Black Americano. It came with a chocolate brownie.
The woman didn't know I had a story to write for tomorrow and I had yet to come up with an idea.
I looked at the candle and thought of the number of times I had left things to the very last minute: I had sat on the sidelines and watched my marriage collapse, convinced there was a story in its demise I could make a fortune from – and I got pretty close, only for my ex-wife to successfully sue me for half.
I had left catching the train to Bespoke to the very last minute. 'Just one more hump. I have time.' The woman was good and had read the book, which was more than most ever did. They just bought a copy, then searched for the sex.
The overnight train didn't wait, so I never made the interview for the winter long residency. It would have given me time to think about my next novel whilst mentoring a dozen wannabe writers.
Stacey, my sister, sent me a telegram saying 'Call. Mom's going. Come now'. It could not have been any clearer. Her cancer had been eating her up slowly, but surely, for a year, yet I still chose to believe I could take a job editing a small town newspaper in the middle of Alaska.
It took every minute of my life, just me and a jobbing printer called Al, plus an abandoned husky we named Leo after the town and the paper. Some son of a bitch left him tied up at the back of the shop in a blizzard, so we took Leo in, as he became, and he stayed, reviving the paper by his presence. My writing and editorial skills played little part in our success.
Stacey's telegram telegram arrived at a bad time, but I did call. 'I'll be there tomorrow. I'll get a plane out. I'll be there before she goes.' I didn't even make the funeral. No one in the family has spoken to me since. Mom helped me from the off. Saw me through college and university whilst Stacy had to make do with a job in the Sheriff's office and living at home.
Now that I'm writing I realise I have a lifetime of stories about how I watched a candle burn down, convinced that I would get to the end before the flame flickered one last time and was gone.
I didn't need another woman. I didn't need another candle. I finished my coffee and half the chocolate brownie and with my left thumb and forefinger I snuffed the flame out. What remained of the wick was brittle and crumbled before my eyes.
In my head, I hear Mom call.
'Coming. I'm coming' I say and my pen scatches paper for one last time.
Now, I'm writing in the dark, not sure if I'm here or not.
© Robert Howard, 18 April 2023.
Whilst the Candle Burns