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[Present Time]

That smile, the curve of your mouth, the shape of the crescent moon. Your whispered speech rises up above, and then drops down, to the rhythm of the lullaby of aroused naivety. All scatter-brained now, you look at me as if the spiral of your conversation could draw me in and wrap me up, thankful that I am not a piece of the broken jigsaw of your life. Tonight, my name is "convenient", and yours is "desperate". Should I be your adhesive?
"So", your fingers are tapping rapidly against the wooden table as if you are possessed by a kind of nervous anticipation; and those auburn rings, your eternal eyes, dance around the room and then fix themselves on mine. "I think I've seen you around before, but I'm not too sure."
The swift grope of the perverse silver moon scrapes across your chalky face and brings attention to the striking forest of brown freckles which surround your cheeks. The clock sounds midnight, and suddenly your eyes expand, as your face is struck with intense confusion. Are you trying to recollect your memories? - I shuffle around uncomfortably, and bury myself within the tranquil shadows cast by the convenient array of furniture. Your face, to me, is a melancholy turbulence, rattling through my bones and violently shaking my imagination.
"I'm sorry, I don't recognise you" I lie, truly thankful that my face is almost hidden now beneath the caress of the camouflaging night. I don't want you to notice my regretful expression, distorted oddly by manic agony. Can you hear it in my tone of voice? - I turn my face away from you, towards the hearth, where greedy flames flare passionately. Flickers of uncompromising orange and fierce red writhe and hiss as they wrestle, yet the fire does not burn out. The torture continues.
It has been two weeks, Patchouli, two painfully long weeks, and you don't even know who I am anymore. You sit down carefully next to the fire, commenting that you are in so much pain but don't know why.
"I" - I cough nervously, "- I don't know why either"
"When I was a child" you look up at the ceiling, trying to remember what you were about to say. You can't even concentrate properly anymore. "Oh yes... I used to make shadow puppets. Did you ever do that?" Your fingers press together and dance with one another. I look up at the wall and see the shadow of a bird, flapping its wings and hovering over the table. "Look how freely it flies!"
I can't tell you. I wish I could. I know you're going to ask what happened, because there's a blank part of your memory which needs filling in; but the shrill whisper of my confession would scream away at you forever more. It would nail you to the floor, and keep you down, and rape you of your current joy. I want you to fly forwards, I really do...
  You used to seem so completely whole. At times you could be so amazing, because you always followed the lead of your heart, which rose above all circumstances; high enough that you tasted the delights of heaven in even the simplest things. You flowed onwards down the stream of gladness, drinking deep of its beauty.
"Are you listening to me?" you ask impatiently.
"I'm sorry"
I'm so sorry.
Please forgive me…

***

The nursing home is painted in faded pastel colours, and we are encouraged to speak in faint whispers, so as to not disturb the resting patients here. One man crawls desperately around on his knees like an incompetent toddler. After a while a nurse finally notices, and impatiently sighing, she charges angrily over to him, lacking the gentle affection of a Mother, seeming more like a convulsing cow. He tells her that he has lost his glasses, and under her breath she utters an indistinguishable moan at his stupid behaviour.

The phone rings, causing an abrupt stop to her bitter ranting. Hurriedly she walks towards it, leaving him abandoned, and desperately searching. I make a mental note to report her unprofessional behaviour later on, and continue on my way to Peter's room; but not before I look back and see her fingering her hair and applying lipstick to her already painted lips. The phone is wedged between her ear and her shoulder, and when she finally speaks there is a marked difference in her tone of voice. This time, she speaks so softly that her features light up and make her look almost transformed. "No, I love you more Johnny…". She giggles a little, and I am left to wonder if I am the only one who thinks that that sounded like a rough cackle from a sandpaper heart, or if that needy old man thought so too.

I have been to Peter's room numerous times, but each time I find myself repulsed all over again. The walls are covered in ripped lemon-yellow wallpaper, and the room silently circulates the sour, nauseatingly vile smells of body odour and urine that swarm my senses with disgust. The window is open but the weather outside is humid, and creates within the room a thick, suffocating atmosphere that almost chokes me, and makes me makes me feel like we're fish inside one of those puny goldfish bowls, trapped within such a confining, depressing scene. Peter's head flops around his neck and he snores so loudly that he wakes himself up. It takes him a while for his vision to come into focus, and he leans over at me, squinting his eyes, as if to say 'who are you?'
I walk over to the vase of plastic lilies that stands in the centre of the windowsill in a failing attempt to make the place look relatively attractive, and he shouts in alarm "oh…oh…don't touch those!"
"Why not?"
"Lilies are such delicate flowers. I don't want them to wither and die. People always kill my lovely flowers"
He begins to scoot around the room, creating a weak breeze that causes the blue dressing gown which rests on the back of his wheelchair to flap around avidly. He reminds me of one of those delicate birds flying helplessly around in a little wire cage. The conditions here are far from comfortable, and make me feel deeply distressed. In the corner of my mind a pain warns me menacingly that if this aggravation continues, a haunting migraine will emerge and accompany me for the rest of the night.
"They're going to fix my legs soon. I'm going to be able to walk again" He says, widening his eyes and attempting to smile. He believes that he is happy, but of course he isn't, and he does not genuinely look it. The weight of his puffy, sagging skin, which reminds me of an unusual pastry, causes his expression to look almost like a frown. His gums are spotted with shades of yellow-brown, giving off the appearance of blistered, infected skin. Of course, he has no teeth, and flecks of water fly rhythmically out of his mouth whenever he speaks.
"Oh, really?" I try to sound surprised. Since I've been coming to visit him, Peter has told me this at least twenty times.
"Yes. They are marvellous people really... Who are you, anyway?"
I look directly at the floor. "I'm…" tears come rushing forward as a surge of emotion strikes me so hard that I have to force myself to breathe correctly and keep my true emotions under control. The pain in my head throbs as migraine knocks at my door with another warning sign.  I don't want to think about this situation. I don't want to ever be where he is now. "…I'm just another nurse here"
"Oh, very good! - We're going to win the war you know, especially with women as pretty as you praying for our country"
I fake a polite laugh. He wheels himself closer to me and shakily lifts his arm, which rattles as it slowly moves from its resting place on the arm of the wheelchair. Weakly, he nudges me, and then says playfully, "Has anyone ever told you that you look like Katharine Hepburn?"
"No, just my Granddad, but he's not around anymore" I take a subtle step away from him, and wonder to myself if Peter has eternally forgotten that I am his Granddaughter. His mind can see no further than World War Two. I like to believe that his other memories are so special to him that they are hidden deep within his heart, and in his old age he does not have the strength to search for them, but they are still there, locked up inside. I hope that they do not get too covered in cobwebs.
Looking at a picture of himself that stands on a dusty shelf behind me, he says, "That is my Father. I wonder if I am ever going to survive the war and get to be his age".
I can't tolerate much more of this, and excuse myself from the room. "I'm just going to check up on some more patients, sweetheart"
"Well okay then, pretty lady, but be sure to visit me later!" He winks, and I hurriedly exit the room, and pick up speed as I exit the main doors of the old people's home.
Every time I say this, but this time I am never visiting here again. It is truly disturbing to say the least.  I wish I could erase this place from my memory.

Sighing with relief, I throw myself eagerly into my car and watch a collection of crows scurrying greedily around the car park, looking for food. It is lunch time now, but the smell in that place has permanently removed my appetite.  I turn on the radio, and then turn it up to the loudest volume. I don't want to hear myself think. I want the music to scare away the spasm of nightmares scurrying around in my head from that horrendous place. I allow my eyes to trace the cracks of the pavement, and then settle on a little flower garden set up in front of the giant building. The zesty yellow bloom of peppy, open-mouthed daffodils; those little yellow cherubs; almost taunt me in my current emotional state. It is odd how even such a subtle swallow of the mouldy rot which we have named 'grief', can cause us to grab onto simplicity so tightly. - But of course, looking at such details so close up enable us to forget the pressurising perspective – that bigger image in numerous shades of stagnant grey – to focus on the seemingly insignificant aspects of life which seem to always stare at us so silently. I recline my chair and close my eyes to try and relax, but only for a brief second.
"Excuse me"
The unexpected interruption causes me to jump and almost let out a yelp, but I recollect myself. It takes a while for my heart to realise that there is no danger, and to slow down its psychotic pounding. Your angry expression gazes through my car window, and for a moment I feel like I should drive off before you burn a hole through it with that intense stare. You motion for me to wind it down, and I find my arms obeying your command.
"This is an old people's home, you know?!"
"Um, yes…Sorry?"
"Your music! Have some respect"
"Oh, sorry." I quickly turn down my radio, and your expression suddenly lightens up. I notice that you have a very pretty face when it is not scrunched up with anger, but it does not take long for me to decide that what draws most attention must be your hair, running down your back like a mysterious cloak or a gushing water fall; and showing your face every so often in the exhale of the sleeping breeze. I find that I am thankful for the presence of someone other than myself who is assumingly fully sane, but how many of us are there really left in the world?
"Thanks. That's better… I think I've seen you around before. You got relatives in here? – I love visiting everyone in this place. They're so interesting, don't you think?" and before you wait to hear my answer you ask, "Do you want some banana bread?" You hold it out eagerly. "I sometimes bake it for the old ones here!...I'm Patchouli, by the way. What's your name?"