DeliriSlumber

Not Kicking up the Daisies

Today’s the second of December and another day above ground, as my father used to say when things weren’t going his way. Well, I’m still standing, and so I guess I can’t complain. Except, I can tell you right now that I hate standing by a lectern with nothing much to do than transfer my weight from one foot to the other and offer a silent prayer of thanks to Dr. Marten for his air-soled saviours.

I walk between two columns of desks just far enough part to let me pass with care. At the back of the testing room I turn, lean back against the cork notice board, and watch thirty-six students busy writing. The ceiling-mounted air conditioner hums and strums and breathes out warm air in waves. That, and the scratch-tap-click of pencils on paper are the only continuous sounds. Someone sneezes. Another sighs.

I shuffle over to the window and peer through a gap in the blinds. The sky is overcast; rain’s forecast for this evening. I catch sight of a plane in the distance on a landing approach to Haneda.

The students are oblivious to my presence.

My thoughts drift to a frail elderly relative who was hospitalized nine weeks ago. The doctors say delirium’s a fog slow to clear and even harder to break through. I watch and wait. What more can one do when the final words are being written and the test almost over?