I woke up at
around 10am on Saturday morning. My eyes cracked open and fuzzily glared
through the crack in the curtains. I could see the blue sky and that the
morning was cool and clear. I was immediately furious at myself for sleeping
in. I had hoped to get up early enough to catch the sunrise after a drive over
to Nendrum Monastic Site, its only about 5 miles from house. As I lay there I
thought that the light scattering of low clouds would have looked beautiful two
hours ago, glowing golden and pink, from the huge red ball emerging over the
horizon. I’m just too lazy you see. Anyway you’d I think I would have been used
to sleeping in, it happens just about everyday. I got up and walked down the
corridor outside my room, feeling the cold wooden floor slightly sticking to my
bare feet as I sleepily wandered to the kitchen. As always first things first,
greater societies wake up call – coffee. The kettle hissed its shrill and angry
shriek, and I couldn’t help but notice that it sounded angry with me too. A minute
later and the whole room was infused with the warm rich scent. Even the smell
of it was perking me up; it reminded me of something I read about 17 century
smelling salts, which were used to wake up patients who had fainted.
I had nothing to
do that morning so I sat about and listened to music while reading ‘To A God
Unknown’ by Steinbeck. When I got bored of that I looked outside at the group
of Goldfinches, backlit by the low morning sun, who were getting a free meal in
our garden, a birdfeeders charity, and when I got bored of that I headed back
to my dim and cluttered bedroom. I have a pretty bad attention span at the
moment, I can’t quite explain why. In my room I started to look through boxes
of old stuff that I kept over the years. Some of the things had been acquired
quite recently, like my camera shaped cufflinks I wore to my formal about 3
years ago. Other things were very old and yet at the same not that old to me,
like a coin I bought from an antiques shop nearly 5 years ago. It’s a big round
coin that’s over 120 years old that fascinated me. I think I paid 50 pence for
a 1 penny coin, which I can’t even use anymore, what a bargain.. Other items
included an old Nokia phone which proudly boasted a 1.3 megapixel camera, an
old birds foot brooch with a green metal 3 leaf clover on it and a pen knife
which I forced my parents to buy me when I was around 10, I remember I cut my
thumb every time I tried to open it. None of this really meant anything to me,
obviously the penknife had a practical use and the coin was quite interesting,
but these things weren’t actually special to me. However there was one thing
that was important. I found it right at the bottom under a little blue wooden
airplane and next to a Barry’s token that you could use to go on rides. It was
a small figure just under an inch tall of a lion standing up right with two
large black fists. He seemed to have some form of silver armour on his torso,
into which his mane flowed. I hadn’t seen it in many years and so I sat holding
the firm plastic figure between my thumb and forefinger. The lion’s legs and arms shining brown and
ridged here and there, his face angry and snarling in a roar. I remembered what
I used to call him, he was called Lion Man.
The strange thing
about Lion Man is that I couldn’t remember where I bought him, nor any
particular time or place where I had him with me and yet he reminded me of so
much. He was a symbol of white lines, for hopping and games, sketched
throughout hard concrete playgrounds, of scratched knees and the exchanging of
Pokémon cards, of chasing friends in the rain across muddy grass and stained
clothes. He represented uniform classrooms and short-gelled hair, football
games, the PlayStation 1 and excitement over Christmas’ and Santa Clause. He
was a symbol of youth. Overwhelmed by the memories that seemed to radiate out
of this tiny toy, I slipped him in my pocket, and went back to my daily routine
of social media, new music and TV. I sat stationary while the sharp afternoon
light streamed through narrow slits in the blinds, like water from a faucet,
and cast harsh lines on our cream sofa.
Later that day my
dad arrived home and asked me if I wanted to go with him to visit my
grandfather. My grandpa was 93 and recently had to go live in an elderly care
home. I hadn’t seen him in over 4 months. On the way to the home, which was in
Holywood, about a 20-minute drive away, my dad told me that grandpa was living
in the EMI unit, which stands for Elderly Mentally Infirm. My dad told me this to
warn me about what I should expect from my visit. I was a little apprehensive
about going to see grandpa; if I’m honest I was worried about what I would say
and about what I would see. I understood that a lot could change in 4 months
when you’re his age. On the way there it started to rain when we were going
over the hills. With green and bare wintery fields on either side, lacking
their usual springtime livestock, I listened to the beating of raindrops on the
windscreen. I swear the weather seemed to worsen the closer we got to the home.
Talk about pathetic fallacy. We pulled up in the car park and I was a bit
surprised by how few cars there were. When we got inside dad took me through to
where grandpa was eating his dinner, lightly golden toast, sausage and eggs. We
pulled up two chairs and dad commenced to help him eat, he carefully compiled
small mounds of food on a spoon and fed it to him as a parent would feed a 1
year old. It is what it is.
Now would be a
good time to tell you a bit about my grandpa. With shame I admit that I don’t
know enough about him. He married my grandmother in his late 20s and together
they had 3 children, my granny is still going strong at the age of 93 too. Ever
since he was young he collected minerals and continued to do so throughout his
life. As a result he had quite a sizable collection, of which his assortment of
Irish zeolites was particularly renowned within the mineral community. He was
funny man although he never laughed, but even in his later years was quick and
witty. While I sat beside him I remembered that, despite the assemblage of
dropped food that had accumulated on his lap and the floor around him, he was
still that man. It’s an important point to keep in mind. It’s all too easy to
focus on the change I had seen in him, but everyone is forever changing, even
everyday, and this is just one more phase for him.
I looked around
the dining room at the other members of the home. I remember now the old,
withered and wrinkly woman, characterized by her purple beret, with a whole
host of sandwiches in front of her, demanding “more bread” from apparently no
one. I can see the other elderly woman with her face expressing constant
dismay. Her memories and reasoning declining, only those things thoroughly
ingrained in her brain remained as she recited some prayer from her past, over
and over like a broken record. The old man across from me, apparently named
Michael, (I over heard some nurses attempting to gain his attention) who
glanced around with a sad glint of confusion in his eyes, as he incessantly
wiped the already clean table with an old napkin. I can remember these things,
all the while a “Home Sweet Home” sign hung ironically on the wall over
erroneous books with no purpose.
I paint a
depressing picture. It was upsetting to see so many people at this stage of
life, dependent and declining in their mental health. The time for my father
and I to leave came, and when I stood up I felt something move in my pocket. I
delved in and felt that solid figure lying still. I knew instantly what it was
and was overcome by an odd sense of guilt. While I looked across the room at
the elderly, I ran my fingers over the little plastic shape, recognizing all of
its crinkles, bumps and the linear creases of its mane. The most upsetting
thing was that I still had something that those people didn’t.
I had my Lion Man
in my pocket.
