Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.
Frank’s hands shook as he raised the glass to his lips and his body gave an involuntary sudden jolt, shaking loose the walking stick that had been precariously, thoughtlessly placed on a slight angle on the edge of the table, which made an almighty clatter as it hit the floor. This was just something that happened many times a day, a moment of Parkinson’s-related clumsiness that ended in noise, so he didn’t think much of the event itself. But he did notice how the people around him noticed. There was the attractive waitress at the café, who seemed nervous that he might drop something more or make more noise, causing more disruption to her perfectly manicured workplace; the young mother in the nearby booth, with her two preschoolers, who looked like she was worried that he was intoxicated or medicated, or perhaps insane, that he might do something uncomfortable that she would have to explain to her children; the businessman who didn’t actually seem to take in anything around him, but had glanced in Frank’s direction, who seemed inconvenienced in some way by the disturbance.
And yet, in all likelihood, these were not the thoughts going through the minds of those around him. The waitress was likely just trying to remember the order of the businessman, who looked as though he was stuck in his own preoccupations, but who would pounce on any slight mistake that was made on his order, requiring perfection in everyone around him. The mother of two was more than likely more concerned about whether her two energetic boys would make a scene in the time it took for her to drink her much-needed morning coffee, like the little time bombs that she always felt that they were, and whether they would get to their weekly music class in time, and whether they’d manage to get bread on the way home before the little one got too tired to be manageable in a crowded supermarket filled with shiny, colourful things to want and need. In all likelihood, nobody was taking any more notice of him than they were anyone else. Everyone trapped in their own microcosm, too consumed to worry about insignificant happenings around them.
Who would know.
And yet, Frank often wondered. He often felt conspicuous. Watched. Judged. Misunderstood. Pitied. He often felt like he had to explain himself to people, explain his unexplained lurching movements, his apparent clumsiness. Explain that he wasn’t always like this.
Perhaps he wanted to be noticed, to feel part of society again, to feel noticed. Was this the reason Frank persisted in making the often-monumental effort to venture out of the house every day, getting away from those four walls that were so comfortable, so secure, so familiar, and yet so very lonely, so very restrictive, so very different from the life that he had known? The life prior to Parkinson’s disease, when he still had full control over his body, a sense of control he never truly appreciated until it was lost.
Frank rose slowly from the uncomfortable wooden chair, suddenly cautious, moving with exaggerated care, trying to overcome the shuffling that otherwise took over. As he got up, smiled at the waitress and paid for his coffee, he felt energized. He was ready to navigate the short trip back home, suddenly thankful for life’s small mercies.
At least he had this walk.
At least he could still look forward to feeling the sun shining on his bare forearms.
At least he had his thoughts to sift through, clear and plentiful. Giving at least some sense of control.