Amnesia

The white paint of the ceiling was peeling off in variously sized shapes. It had been this way for seventeen years, and it looked the same every morning. To the old woman, everything was always the same. She used the same 12 ounce box of Arm & Hammer to brush her teeth every morning and ate Quaker 2-minute oatmeal. It took her exactly thirty-two minutes to get out of bed each morning from the moment she opened her eyes to the white, empty ceiling. The old woman did not like the way other toothpaste brands left a minty taste in her mouth. She enjoyed the way the paste felt when she brushed her tongue with the worn out, blue toothbrush. One swish. Two swish. Spit.  She sure did not like oatmeal when there was too much milk in it either. When the oatmeal was more soup-like, she ate it so much faster, and she liked to eat it slow. She liked to eat in small, slow bites. It’s not as if the routine bothered her. In fact, she liked the way everything was always the same. And the ceiling. The old woman liked that ceiling very much. She liked the way the ceiling paint curled downwards towards her bed like angels’ arms reaching to take her away. Her daughter had painted it but never listened when her mother told her she had better put on a coat of primer. The old woman took comfort in her small routines because they were some of the only few things she remembered anymore. She made sure that the rituals she performed were done the same every time.

That day, like all the other ones before it, she was sitting in her favorite plaid green chair. Her daughter had hated that chair so much. It was a subject of disagreement one too many times and the old woman always won. The seat was sunken in from the past few decades and there were bath towels over the arms to cover the thinning, frayed fabric caused by years of friction.

Next to the chair there was a small wooden table that her husband had made.  His initials were engraved into one of the corners. A yellow rotary phone on top of the wooden stand. The old woman could see the thick layer of dust on top of it. She never made calls from that phone, and she never received calls either. She never used any phone, really. She would tell her daughter to disconnect it for her. That’s all. There is no use to a phone if it’s never going to be used. At that moment, the phone rang. The old woman just stared at it as if it was not ringing at all. She stared at it as if she was staring at the ceiling. She was unsure whether or not to pick up the receiver. It’s not that she didn’t want to answer the call, it was just, well, it had been so long since she had. Just as quickly as it started, it stopped ringing and the old woman released a small sigh of relief. She would tell her daughter to disconnect the phone. Throw it away.

            The old woman felt her eyelids heavy. She thought it must have been hours since she sat down on the chair. Her joints ached and her muscles felt limp at the thought of getting up. She knew that if she didn’t force herself up now, she would be spending the rest of the night in the shabby chair. From experience, the old woman knew she would regret her decision to stay when she woke up the next morning. The old woman struggled to lift herself from the comfort of the chair. After much effort, she stood erect, and took pause for several minutes before slowly trudging down the narrow hallway to her room. She pulled back the comforter of her bed and sat on the edge. She slowly pulled her legs onto to the bed and relaxed the rest of her body until her head rested on the pillow. When she finally remembered what she had always forgot, she smiled at the ceiling with content. She watched as her daughter’s arms reached out to take her away as she slowly closed her eyes.