From the beginning, this had become a routine of sorts for them.
Words could not express how difficult it was for one to dress in the morning with neither eyes to see, or both hands to aid him. He, who had been self sufficient for as long as he could remember, now found himself in need of the aide of others for the most mundane things – from fastening a button, to lighting a candle, to telling him which was water and which was wine.
For dressing in the morning, he was more than pleased to have the task switched from John, however well meaning, to his wife.
The task, instead of demeaning and frustrating, was now something soft and almost be looked forward to in his mind. A weakness was not impossible to overcome while in her presence, but something to gently chisel away at, like an artist upon a block of stone. He felt close to her in these moments, close enough to imagine the straight fall of her hair and the fairy flutter of her hands as she assisted him. She smelled of something wild – like pine woods and mountain flowers. Like autumn cresting and leaves falling before winter. He shook his head at his thoughts, wondering, as he always did, how they managed to take such a spin when he was in her presence.
As she would help him, she would speak. Today, the rainclouds that had sat over their corner of the world for the last several days had lifted. He could no longer feel the thunder in his bones, and so he took her word that the sky was blue and endlessly so. He had enough images from a lifetime to sustain his mind's eye, and with her words, he felt those memories sharpening and clarifying into something that he could almost see again.
He tries to tell her this once, and though he could not see it, he imagined that she was smiling nonetheless.
With her, he had a vast repertoire of remembered gazes, indeed to draw from. His Jane had a face not accustomed to smiling, in the beginning. Indeed, it was as if the tired muscles of her face were learning to live again when she was with them . . . He had enjoyed placing that spark in her eyes; that curve to her lips . . .
His thoughts were interrupted as she helped him place on his shirt. The motions were simple, arm in, turn once, then other arm in. She smoothed the sleeves down, and as her hand trailed down his arm, her hand rested on the mutilated end of his own, right where his hand should have been. Her fingers were soft over the angry flesh; beauty granting the beast with a moment of acceptance. He stared stonily ahead at the touch, as he did every day when she assisted him. Sometimes, being without sight was as much a blessing as a curse. There was as much as he wished to look on as he didn't care to see again.
Her other hand raised to touch the corner of his frown, as if her touch alone could sooth the harsh lines into something soft again. “Cheer up, old man,” she said, a playful timbre to her voice. “There are far worse things in life to be without.”
Practical Jane. His Jane . . . and he knows her words to be so. He holds a hand over hers for a moment, needing the contact of skin and skin to serve his where his eyes failed. “Of that,” he whispered in reply to her words, “I am most acutely aware.”
He wished he could see her blush as well as feel her skin warm under his hand. Thankfully, he has more than one memory of that to serve his mind's eye. Before, he had taken every moment he could to challenge an emotion from her – be it perplexed curiosity, vexation, or even modest embarrassment. All had been gifts she had been unconscious in giving; and gifts that he had cherished as treasures.
you wished to see this stretch of blue ahead 1/2
Words could not express how difficult it was for one to dress in the morning with neither eyes to see, or both hands to aid him. He, who had been self sufficient for as long as he could remember, now found himself in need of the aide of others for the most mundane things – from fastening a button, to lighting a candle, to telling him which was water and which was wine.
For dressing in the morning, he was more than pleased to have the task switched from John, however well meaning, to his wife.
The task, instead of demeaning and frustrating, was now something soft and almost be looked forward to in his mind. A weakness was not impossible to overcome while in her presence, but something to gently chisel away at, like an artist upon a block of stone. He felt close to her in these moments, close enough to imagine the straight fall of her hair and the fairy flutter of her hands as she assisted him. She smelled of something wild – like pine woods and mountain flowers. Like autumn cresting and leaves falling before winter. He shook his head at his thoughts, wondering, as he always did, how they managed to take such a spin when he was in her presence.
As she would help him, she would speak. Today, the rainclouds that had sat over their corner of the world for the last several days had lifted. He could no longer feel the thunder in his bones, and so he took her word that the sky was blue and endlessly so. He had enough images from a lifetime to sustain his mind's eye, and with her words, he felt those memories sharpening and clarifying into something that he could almost see again.
He tries to tell her this once, and though he could not see it, he imagined that she was smiling nonetheless.
With her, he had a vast repertoire of remembered gazes, indeed to draw from. His Jane had a face not accustomed to smiling, in the beginning. Indeed, it was as if the tired muscles of her face were learning to live again when she was with them . . . He had enjoyed placing that spark in her eyes; that curve to her lips . . .
His thoughts were interrupted as she helped him place on his shirt. The motions were simple, arm in, turn once, then other arm in. She smoothed the sleeves down, and as her hand trailed down his arm, her hand rested on the mutilated end of his own, right where his hand should have been. Her fingers were soft over the angry flesh; beauty granting the beast with a moment of acceptance. He stared stonily ahead at the touch, as he did every day when she assisted him. Sometimes, being without sight was as much a blessing as a curse. There was as much as he wished to look on as he didn't care to see again.
Her other hand raised to touch the corner of his frown, as if her touch alone could sooth the harsh lines into something soft again. “Cheer up, old man,” she said, a playful timbre to her voice. “There are far worse things in life to be without.”
Practical Jane. His Jane . . . and he knows her words to be so. He holds a hand over hers for a moment, needing the contact of skin and skin to serve his where his eyes failed. “Of that,” he whispered in reply to her words, “I am most acutely aware.”
He wished he could see her blush as well as feel her skin warm under his hand. Thankfully, he has more than one memory of that to serve his mind's eye. Before, he had taken every moment he could to challenge an emotion from her – be it perplexed curiosity, vexation, or even modest embarrassment. All had been gifts she had been unconscious in giving; and gifts that he had cherished as treasures.