In addition to writing fiction and poetry, Belinda Hubert is currently working on a novel, titled Shrink Wrapped and a collection of short stories about life in the Midwest. She works as a clinical psychologist
in a private practice in Lowell, Indiana. Belinda is a frequent contributor to Indiana Voice Journal.
http://buelasprairiepractice.blogspot.com/
PAUL
Lub, lub, lub... Lub. Lub. Listening to his irregular heartbeat under the droning sounds of
CNN on the television, he’s thinking about being old. All the cliches apply. It’s not for sissies.
It happens so quickly. You look in the mirror and one day you’re old. He’s most surprised by
the pain. It hardly seems fair that eyesight dulls, hearing muffles, steps slow, energy ebbs.
But pain hurts just as much as ever. He falls more often, and as he’s going down, he has
time to think “Damn, that’s gonna hurt”. And it sure as hell does. Just as much as if he were
20. Only one of the mysteries and indignities of being old. One time, on the way to the
mailbox, he saw the fall coming and took off a running. By some miracle, he caught up with
himself. That was a pretty good day.
He fights depression and worry every time he looks over at his little wife, bent with age, in so
much pain, struggling with her walker to get to the bathroom. His kids say he worries in
direct proportion to the amount he loves. He admits if there was a category for that in the
Olympics, he’d take home the gold. He feels a little bit like the Hulk, but the green monster
you get when you brush his arm isn’t full of rage, he’s full of worry. The older he gets, the
better he is at keeping that guy under wraps, but the constant threat is always there. In the
dark of night when he can’t sleep, they have themselves some mighty tussles. At the risk of
getting cocky, he’s been winning for a good 15 or 20 years now and doesn’t see why that
should change. His body may be more frail and wobbly, but his will is tough as nails.
Overall, he has to say life is still so very sweet. Way more so as time runs out. This may be
the last beautiful October he’ll see. Even if it’s not, this is one danged beautiful October.
More would be good, but he’s not greedy. He even likes the overcast days because the color
of the rain slick leaves seems to come from within them instead of being lit up by the sun.
The flowers set it off so well, too. Not every mid October still has sunflowers and red roses
blooming. How many times do you get to enjoy all this in a lifetime? He wonders again why
anyone would deliberately deprive someone of this sweet life. They sure as shit do, though,
and CNN has the exclusive with footage.
He hopes his daughter is right about us not having souls, but being souls, with bodies.
Because his body is definitely more temporary than ever. He looks at his big hand with the
hair turned white and the age spots. It is still the same big paw he’s had all his life, but now, if
he pinches the skin on the back of it, it just stays sticking up like a teepee. Before it would
have bounced back, quick as you please. As fondly as he hopes to once again see his little
mommy and his sister and baby brothers, he’s not so sure they’ll be waiting at the end of a
long white tunnel. But, if we do somehow go on when we’re done being human, he knows
without a doubt what will not happen. There is no Santaish fella sitting up there on a cloud
making a list, checking it twice, letting Aunt Bertha die in a train wreck so that cousin Tommy
can learn some valuable life lesson. That dude is an asshole. Whatever mysterious thing
happens next and he fiercely hopes our consciousness does survive our bodies it’s not
dictated by some mean old guy with a long white beard sitting up on a cloud. Still, he prays
every night. It doesn’t hurt. And it’s free.
It’s odd how things seem to have sped up to a dizzying pace and slowed way, way down at
the exact same time. Before you know it, September has turned to October, which turns to
November and in seconds flat, it’s Christmas. But sometimes he feels pinned to this
excruciating second like an insect on a specimen board. Especially when he sees the pain in
Jo’s eyes. They have been married 60 years. He knows it’s there. Every day. Still, she
smiles when she looks over at him, and hardly ever complains about it. She will bitch him out
in a New York minute when she gets overwhelmed, though. He loves her so much.
He is thinking too much about a big lot of nothing. This has all been happening ever since
Eve. He sure isn’t the first or last one to have it to do. He keeps thinking he’ll find a way to get
out of it, but in the meantime, he pushes the mute on the TV remote, picks up his guitar and
sings. The sweet rhythm that reminds him he’s still here keeps time. Lub, lub, lub... Lub.
Lub.
~Belinda Hubert
http://buelasprairiepractice.blogspot.com/
PAUL
Lub, lub, lub... Lub. Lub. Listening to his irregular heartbeat under the droning sounds of
CNN on the television, he’s thinking about being old. All the cliches apply. It’s not for sissies.
It happens so quickly. You look in the mirror and one day you’re old. He’s most surprised by
the pain. It hardly seems fair that eyesight dulls, hearing muffles, steps slow, energy ebbs.
But pain hurts just as much as ever. He falls more often, and as he’s going down, he has
time to think “Damn, that’s gonna hurt”. And it sure as hell does. Just as much as if he were
20. Only one of the mysteries and indignities of being old. One time, on the way to the
mailbox, he saw the fall coming and took off a running. By some miracle, he caught up with
himself. That was a pretty good day.
He fights depression and worry every time he looks over at his little wife, bent with age, in so
much pain, struggling with her walker to get to the bathroom. His kids say he worries in
direct proportion to the amount he loves. He admits if there was a category for that in the
Olympics, he’d take home the gold. He feels a little bit like the Hulk, but the green monster
you get when you brush his arm isn’t full of rage, he’s full of worry. The older he gets, the
better he is at keeping that guy under wraps, but the constant threat is always there. In the
dark of night when he can’t sleep, they have themselves some mighty tussles. At the risk of
getting cocky, he’s been winning for a good 15 or 20 years now and doesn’t see why that
should change. His body may be more frail and wobbly, but his will is tough as nails.
Overall, he has to say life is still so very sweet. Way more so as time runs out. This may be
the last beautiful October he’ll see. Even if it’s not, this is one danged beautiful October.
More would be good, but he’s not greedy. He even likes the overcast days because the color
of the rain slick leaves seems to come from within them instead of being lit up by the sun.
The flowers set it off so well, too. Not every mid October still has sunflowers and red roses
blooming. How many times do you get to enjoy all this in a lifetime? He wonders again why
anyone would deliberately deprive someone of this sweet life. They sure as shit do, though,
and CNN has the exclusive with footage.
He hopes his daughter is right about us not having souls, but being souls, with bodies.
Because his body is definitely more temporary than ever. He looks at his big hand with the
hair turned white and the age spots. It is still the same big paw he’s had all his life, but now, if
he pinches the skin on the back of it, it just stays sticking up like a teepee. Before it would
have bounced back, quick as you please. As fondly as he hopes to once again see his little
mommy and his sister and baby brothers, he’s not so sure they’ll be waiting at the end of a
long white tunnel. But, if we do somehow go on when we’re done being human, he knows
without a doubt what will not happen. There is no Santaish fella sitting up there on a cloud
making a list, checking it twice, letting Aunt Bertha die in a train wreck so that cousin Tommy
can learn some valuable life lesson. That dude is an asshole. Whatever mysterious thing
happens next and he fiercely hopes our consciousness does survive our bodies it’s not
dictated by some mean old guy with a long white beard sitting up on a cloud. Still, he prays
every night. It doesn’t hurt. And it’s free.
It’s odd how things seem to have sped up to a dizzying pace and slowed way, way down at
the exact same time. Before you know it, September has turned to October, which turns to
November and in seconds flat, it’s Christmas. But sometimes he feels pinned to this
excruciating second like an insect on a specimen board. Especially when he sees the pain in
Jo’s eyes. They have been married 60 years. He knows it’s there. Every day. Still, she
smiles when she looks over at him, and hardly ever complains about it. She will bitch him out
in a New York minute when she gets overwhelmed, though. He loves her so much.
He is thinking too much about a big lot of nothing. This has all been happening ever since
Eve. He sure isn’t the first or last one to have it to do. He keeps thinking he’ll find a way to get
out of it, but in the meantime, he pushes the mute on the TV remote, picks up his guitar and
sings. The sweet rhythm that reminds him he’s still here keeps time. Lub, lub, lub... Lub.
Lub.
~Belinda Hubert