| February
23, 2003
on the
bank
There
was a time, not so long ago, when I wished I were committed to a mental
hospital. I was only interested in a manor-type institution set somewhere
in the English countryside. It would be like a resort, except the
staff would consist of pale, pretty nurses with bad teeth who tiptoed down
halls and around sensibilities. The rooms would be private and homey.
Sadism would be prohibited. On pleasant, temperate days, a nurse
assigned to my wing would rap gently on my door and, despite my ability
to walk, help me into an old-fashioned, wooden wheelchair. The nurse,
prim in her starched uniform, would drape a blanket across my lap and wheel
me out into the bright sunshine. She would stroll me to a partially
hidden pond where she would set the brake and leave me alone on the bank.
It would be quiet there, except for wind in the trees and tinkling chimes
in my head. |