Imperfections // a "Perfecticity" spin-off

Part 2: Universal Travel Solutions

| 1666 words |

~The caretaker's point of view~

Although the nursing home encouraged visitors, strangers from off the property were not permitted. Therefore, a lack of trespassers left the nursing home grounds safe for residents to take walks throughout the surrounding nature.

While the sun climbed in the morning sky, a gentle ocean breeze swept past George, who wore a t-shirt and sweatpants, and me, who wore my caretaker uniform. Less than ten minutes into our pleasant stroll along a cement sidewalk, his rasping breaths became audible; the resident attested he was athletic in his youth, but his vitality had long left him.

Our favorite route passed trimmed lawns, residents unwinding on outdoor patios, and flowers in vases upon porches. Usually, George and I did not converse on our walks. We had trekked the same route twice per week for the last three years, starting once the resident's progressing Alzheimer's rendered him incapable of reaching the nearby city on his own without becoming lost.

Beyond the cluster of multi-floored apartments, George and I approached the lake, which also bordered a small golf course. Wooden planks creaked under our feet as we crossed the dock. Standing along the edge, we rested our elbows upon a tall wooden railway, which prevented accidental falls into the lake. I glanced at George's eyes as they flitted across the algae-ridden water, searching for hidden fish and amphibians beneath the lake's rippling surface.

"This place is so peaceful," George sighed. "I don't think I've ever been to this lake before."

Instead of mentioning he had been here hundreds of times, I agreed, "I know. Visiting the dock always helps me think."

George cracked a rare smile. I expected him to comment more about the scenery, but he changed the subject, "Do you have my notepad? I'm trying to remember something."

"Of course," I nodded. Placing my bag upon the dock's wooden planks, I retrieved the blue binder labeled George Davidson, 78yrs (single-occ.). Carefully opening the binder, I drew out George's notepad of memories. Presenting the compilation, I offered, "Would you like to read it yourself, or should I?"

"I'd like to read," George decided. Gently he plucked the notepad from my hands with quaking fingers, then placed it upon the railing. Busy with flipping open the pages, searching through paragraphs for something, he did not realize how precariously the notepad balanced upon the wooden railing.

"George, maybe you should move the notepad away from the -" My suggestion trailed off as the weight of the pages George flipped away grew. In one breathless heartbeat, the notepad tilted. I was too far away to reach, and the elderly man's reaction time was too slow.

The notepad careened, then fell off the railing. Pages fluttered wildly as it sailed through the two meters of air between the railing and the lake's surface. Algae-filled water splashed as the notepad broke the surface tension and sank.

"No!" My horrified scream split the calm morning air. George gasped, flinching from the high pitch.

As lake water soaked the notepad's pages, George's lifetime of memories written upon it ran together. Ink smudged until the words were completely illegible.

Seconds passed as George and I peered at the spot where his stories, dreams, friends, family, and soulmate were lost forever. My heart pounded in my chest. The poor man's entire self was poured on that notepad. Flashing images filled my head, portraying George's thoughts, feelings, and life experiences. Even if I tried to piece together a new notepad based on what details I remembered, I knew a bulky portion of George's documented life had permanently vanished in a single tragic moment.