My Masseur

A few years ago I used to visit a masseaur on my doctor's recommendation. My slow deterioration of age, fitness and aches had gotme into this situationso I agreed a little TLC would be appropriate. Tis could not have been further from the truth of course. It is one thing to have your body soothed into a relaxed state but quite another to have those aches and pains identified and kneaded into submission by a skilled practitioner. Parting with a few dollars to satisfy the sadistic pleasure of a torturer was a bitter pill to swallow except that for the rest of that day the treatment received I felt reall well. My body felt cleansed of a myiad ills, albeit temporary but it did give me hope my body would not crumble around me.

My return visits were not regular at first but with such well being It encouraged me to attend on a monthly basis. Soon the manipulation, the music in the background and our two way conversations about everything under the sun soon made the visits quite a delight.

I say two way conversations; thisd is not quite truw. While the masseur was a young woman half my age chatted abot many things my own utterances were few. My response may be an admonition at her finding a reclacitrant tendon or a chat about our families, pets or holidays! If she was silent I too might drift off as I melted under her care

This of course was my undoing. Recieving treatment I was stripped down to my jocks and not a stitch more. Can you imagine my chagrin when on the massage table been lowered she tapped my shoulder to say "You can get up now", finding that she had put my socks on me! I gasped "I forgot to take my socks off".

At this she replied with a laugh "No! You were fast asleep I put them on for you." It is one thing to have a masseur, quite another to have a dresser too!"

339 words

The taxi journey

                                

So lonely and sad I returned home

My wife had died in hospital

Leaving me to live a sad life

So I wiped the motes from my eyes

Feeling empty, frail and helpless

The taxi journey seemed endless

I spoke little on the ride back

My mind drifted back years ago

Both then young living a wild life

Then settling down with family

Seeking the days of happiness

The taxi driver delivered me home

I entered now our empty house

I choked with sorrow by myself

Then I lit a candle just for her

Photo found at www.pixabay.com

My first real girlfriend

 

In my last year at school there were times when we had freedom to study, play tennis or just use the library to write our essays. I then I found I was not the only one there but Joan, a very attractive who would also be there doing the same. So we chose that time to to chat in the library or in summer play tennis. She was very good at the game but that worried me little as I was more interested in dating her.

When school was over I often found her walking home and found she only lived a short walk from our house. Before long I was invited to meet her mother and if I stayed longer I'd meet her father too.

In summer time we also spent time walking to the town park where we'd find a secluded bench so we could kiss each other. I adored her and soon I was visiting her on weekends to and was invited to have meal with the family too.

As the school year progressed she said she needed to spend more time studying. I too was concerned as my exams were over and one of the schools governors had asked the headmaster if there was a student interested working in architecture. I was informed and took the job eagerly.

We kept in touch for many months but she too managed to get a job...but in London,so our friendship was shattered. This sudden change was the end of our romance. 

Fifty years later we met again on Facebook; both my wife and her husband had now died. I lived in Australia and she in Britain and we happily told of our lives far apart. Sadly just last year her daughter emailed me telling me she too had died.

Image found at www.pinterest.com

Returning home

I returned home from the city

I'd forgotten the beauty here

With the perfume of the farm fields

That fragrant scent that called me there

And sweet bloom of the wild flowers

With sight of birds over the woods

And foxes sniffing round the roots

I followed the path to the farm

Word had it that all was not well

Dad insisted that I come back

Trusting I made this last journey

To find that Ma was ill in bed

T'was an act I'll not forget

Sadly she died holding my hand

A walk in the park

I often walk in the park. No, that is not true, I walk in the park and I sit down on a bench and I think and observe and feed the bird life with bread scraps.On most days I see the usual walkers and joggers, skateboarders and mothers with babies or toddlers. I don't wave or say hello to them or they to me as we are part of the park just like the seats; the gardens, the grass and the trees. Then there is Maisie. I am sure that is not her name but just one I have given her. She looks cross and holds a coat hanger in one hand and drags a trolley with the other.

The trolley is filled with bags half filled with bottles, cans and plastic containers each worth a few cents at the recycling depot. So we have little debris littering our streets, parks and waterways. It is just too valuable for Maisie and hundreds like her. An army of scavenger ants in Adelaide clearing the city and elsewhere.

As I sit Maisie approaches the bin near me and uses a coathanger for the treasures in the garbage. She is dressed for the task. Even her best friends wouldn't recognise her as she wears a hat that shields her face and protects her from the sun held on by a chiffon scarf.Her clothes would be rejected by opportunity shops and her shoes would probably fit me.

At first I would ignore her and she me. Then one day hiding behind her mask was a sweet face when her grimace relaxed.  I saw a different Maisie as a young girl having her first kiss gazing in a boys eyes, then later holding a baby. So I got up and took a walk in the park 

356 words

The Violin

 

Jane's mother wanted her to play the violin

But Jane, eyes wide open, shook her head sadly

Protesting it was not for her at all

What with fingering frets and the lessons 

Bridges and strings keeping her from sport

Imagining what awful sounds she would make

Made her feel really bad in her belly

He mother now saw how broken she was

Jane protested she was so good at sport

Her voice husky and close to crying

"It would ruin all my plans" eyes in tears

Voice brittle she moaned, "I'm good at hockey"

Falling over

 

I am awake again free to face the world

Making an old mans mark...alive

Bones aching but ready to trot

Hoping not to fall or again

Without doing doing any damage

Hated hollering for help

That's the the limit said my wife

But she allowed me a walker

To push on and sit when tired

Didn't seem natural to me

But brave enough to try it out