In the dim recesses of the house, tinkling chimes in a myriad designs dangled from the ceilings causing me to duck and weave in order to prevent a percussive symphony of variant melodies filling the rooms as I went.
A collection of dolls in beautifully tailored couture stared unblinkingly at me from pedestals, recesses, shelves and furniture, forlorn it seemed, in the knowledge that they were no longer part of this home - soon to be sold, no doubt to someone who'd have little idea of the careworn arthritic fingers that had stitched and embroidered their fine gowns with an affection cultivated by a lifetime of dedication to family, pets and one man through it all.
These gnarled, wizened people, hunched husband and wife with their bright-eyed cat, the jewel of their lives, appositely named, Ruby - followed me through each room, talking up the history of its transformation over twenty five years, the affection and pathos obvious in each syllable.
Every wall in the house, save the kitchen, was covered with pictures of cats of every conceivable type and colour, each print mounted onto a cardboard backing and carefully slotted jigsaw like into a composite tapestry until not a scrap of paint could be seen.
It should've seemed pathetic - it wasn't. It was the most endearing thing I'd ever seen. It caused me to tear up and swallow a rising lump in my throat.
And now, a retirement home - Jane was too wobbly on her feet and the housework was becoming beyond challenging. I could see the loving light still sparkling in her husband, Peter's old, faded blue eyes as if to say: if I go, who will care for her then?
I moved into another fabulously cluttered chamber of curiosities, wiping a tear from my eyes with a surreptitious sweep of my hand. Ruby purred against my legs and Jane smiled broadly and beatifically at me having discovered I was the rescuer of seven cats of my own. I was one of the good ones.
The paradox of this human existence, the riddle of the Sphinx flashed into my mind as I witnessed very old people transmogrifying into foetal forms once again, curling within the womb of a sacred home, umbilical walking sticks connecting them to its energetic heart. A heart soon to be transplanted...
There was something paradoxically oppressive and yet liberating about this encounter. I wanted to escape as much as I wanted to embrace them.
I smiled, wished them well, stroked Ruby one last time, touched Jane and Peter affectionately on the shoulders then walked out into the misty morning, my tears mingling with the rain on my cheeks as I slowly headed for the car.
A collection of dolls in beautifully tailored couture stared unblinkingly at me from pedestals, recesses, shelves and furniture, forlorn it seemed, in the knowledge that they were no longer part of this home - soon to be sold, no doubt to someone who'd have little idea of the careworn arthritic fingers that had stitched and embroidered their fine gowns with an affection cultivated by a lifetime of dedication to family, pets and one man through it all.
These gnarled, wizened people, hunched husband and wife with their bright-eyed cat, the jewel of their lives, appositely named, Ruby - followed me through each room, talking up the history of its transformation over twenty five years, the affection and pathos obvious in each syllable.
Every wall in the house, save the kitchen, was covered with pictures of cats of every conceivable type and colour, each print mounted onto a cardboard backing and carefully slotted jigsaw like into a composite tapestry until not a scrap of paint could be seen.
It should've seemed pathetic - it wasn't. It was the most endearing thing I'd ever seen. It caused me to tear up and swallow a rising lump in my throat.
And now, a retirement home - Jane was too wobbly on her feet and the housework was becoming beyond challenging. I could see the loving light still sparkling in her husband, Peter's old, faded blue eyes as if to say: if I go, who will care for her then?
I moved into another fabulously cluttered chamber of curiosities, wiping a tear from my eyes with a surreptitious sweep of my hand. Ruby purred against my legs and Jane smiled broadly and beatifically at me having discovered I was the rescuer of seven cats of my own. I was one of the good ones.
The paradox of this human existence, the riddle of the Sphinx flashed into my mind as I witnessed very old people transmogrifying into foetal forms once again, curling within the womb of a sacred home, umbilical walking sticks connecting them to its energetic heart. A heart soon to be transplanted...
There was something paradoxically oppressive and yet liberating about this encounter. I wanted to escape as much as I wanted to embrace them.
I smiled, wished them well, stroked Ruby one last time, touched Jane and Peter affectionately on the shoulders then walked out into the misty morning, my tears mingling with the rain on my cheeks as I slowly headed for the car.
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