He saw her through the glass, a jagged out of focus, blurry edged lifeform. She was being sustained by a series of life support instruments.
In that melange of the glass and its own reflection, and the hazaar floats of wire, he could still discern those eyes, the very ones which had been struggling to deal with color and focus in recent years.
They were snapped shut and seemed to just break the still rhythm, if only to keep pace with the breathing circadian.
He kept staring, neither expecting a voluntary movement, nor a spoken word. Through the glass the words would have meant nothing more than a silent gasp.
Years ago, one day, she had beseeched him to sit and talk. He had sat down. She had spoken for a few minutes, words laden with anger, pain and disgust. She had also lamented on the terrible sense of loss. He had given her time, he had sat down, he had heard her voice, he had said nothing....and most importantly, he had not listened. She was drawing fish on water. Her fingers had moistened up, but the water just regained shaped and had moved on.
Today, he knew even if he tried, he could never ever know or remember what she had try to make him see that day.
He slowly made his way out, and he chuckled, the soft under the breath chuckle of being had by life and its swollen experiences, of the sadness that hits you when you realize....that all along you have mistakenly fighting the wrong war, and sadly you are designed to now being consigned forever to be a loser.
It had occurred to him, that in this strange last moments, the "viewer" was a still, yet breathing alive lady. The "exhibit" was a long gone dead figurine.
Maybe, she probably always saw him through an elaborate bokeh.
In that melange of the glass and its own reflection, and the hazaar floats of wire, he could still discern those eyes, the very ones which had been struggling to deal with color and focus in recent years.
They were snapped shut and seemed to just break the still rhythm, if only to keep pace with the breathing circadian.
He kept staring, neither expecting a voluntary movement, nor a spoken word. Through the glass the words would have meant nothing more than a silent gasp.
Years ago, one day, she had beseeched him to sit and talk. He had sat down. She had spoken for a few minutes, words laden with anger, pain and disgust. She had also lamented on the terrible sense of loss. He had given her time, he had sat down, he had heard her voice, he had said nothing....and most importantly, he had not listened. She was drawing fish on water. Her fingers had moistened up, but the water just regained shaped and had moved on.
Today, he knew even if he tried, he could never ever know or remember what she had try to make him see that day.
He slowly made his way out, and he chuckled, the soft under the breath chuckle of being had by life and its swollen experiences, of the sadness that hits you when you realize....that all along you have mistakenly fighting the wrong war, and sadly you are designed to now being consigned forever to be a loser.
It had occurred to him, that in this strange last moments, the "viewer" was a still, yet breathing alive lady. The "exhibit" was a long gone dead figurine.
Maybe, she probably always saw him through an elaborate bokeh.
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