Bum-cleaners Closet

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Random / Fiction

Moving her dad into a nursing home is probably the hardest fear Nina’s ever had to conquer. It is far more excruciating than being thirsty and not having water to sip on. It is more sharply awakening than falling hard on her knees when learning to ride a bicycle. During the days after her cycling debacles, she’d yearn to pull the peeling skin off, shamelessly influenced by the slight masochistic streak she had no doubt inherited from her father.

Bum cleaners abound in geriatric hospitals and nursing care homes for the elderly. Bun cleaners-on-the-go, coming out of their giggling closet, where they keep their mops and plastic gloves and never-ending stock of soft sponges, safe in the knowledge that no elderly patients will be able to decipher those otherwise quite useless locks. 

Sponges are no good when what one really, really, really wants is to author the next geriatric bestseller though. 

My dad remembers things that did not exist and lives his dreams and dreams his life. And while wiggling his hands, he ponders what to do next. He wants a watch and a magnifying glass. A watch to keep track of the passing time – they lie to him in in the nursing home, he keeps complaining to no avail. A magnifying glass to observe the dirt and dust accumulating under the dining tables. 

He takes notes of the things he wants to quietly observe and write about when he’s recovered. Male nurses recycling dirty mugs to alleviate the thirst of those poor souls. Those that accompany my dad in this ghastly journey through passing days and wrinkled afternoons and untidy evenings and sleepless nights. 

Dad looks through the magnifying glass once more, his green iris glaring with infinite nous

He caresses the glass, and smiles. Closes his eyes. Dad falls asleep. 

I will see you again tomorrow, dad. Sleep tight. 

The Author

Woman. Floaty. Attached. Dettached. Sudden. Note-scribbler. Citizen of the world. Travelling to the moon and back.

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