Perspective
// February 27th, 2009 // Writing
“I see you’re still making a grand entrance these days, Madeline”. The greying coffee-breathed physics lecturer whose name I can never quite remember –or perhaps ever even known- squeezed past me with a stifled smile, and out the doorway of the staff common room. I chuckled politely.
Every morning it is that same step, without fail, that I stumble over on my early morning journeys to the coffee grinder. A pointless step, a step with issues. The designer of that step has some personal problems that need psychological awakening. Why take it out on the staffroom entrance?
The lights flicker nimbly in sleepy neon blinks and I fumble at the drawers for a moderately clean teaspoon. The grinder is empty- just my luck.
Somewhat disappointed in my unnecessary success in locating a clean teaspoon, I rest my legs, collapsing into the leathery, torn couch that moans in protest.
The room is dark, but the lights gradually pick up speed, and after half an hour of thumb twiddling and foot tapping, I am awake enough to survey the daily notice board.
Nothing too interesting, a stick-it note about a student with notoriously low pants who should be penalised upon identification.
A memo regarding the carpet cleaners arriving Tuesday.
I pull out me pencil and scratch down a somewhat aggressive message to my fellow co-workers about allowing enough coffee to be rationed for each and every one of us. I smile and nod contentedly at my nobility, and begin to turn towards that troublesome door…but something catches my eye.
A thumbnail Polaroid in the corner of the notice board, firmly secured with a pink pin.
My eyes struggle to adjust to the dim lighting, and size of the picture. It barely fills the small space.
It is a snapshot of a baby’s tender, wrinkled hand clasped around a pair of fingers withered, faded and blotchy- a little like my own.
This is not unlike other touching photographs I have seen, but there is still a profound sense of sentimentality attached to that small portrait.
I realise how long I have stood, gazing at the noticeboard, and allow my eyes to wander downwards, to a floral bordered letter posted below the photograph.
A Prayer chain.
Our condolences and heartfelt empathy to the Edwards family, whose two month old baby girl, Shae, was taken from them jus yesterday afternoon. The child had been born suffering internal bleeding, in need of organ transplants and a collapsed lung. After two months of fighting and growing love, she died in hospital.
Please leave a thought for the Edwards family as you go about your day.
The piercing quiet rings out through the room, and I feel tears dripping from my cheeks.
The clarity that rushes through me creates a severe self-anguish, as I survey my petty complaints about the coffee grinder. I angrily remove my contribution to the board, and rub my hands over my face.
The sound of my own silent weeping stirs a realisation in my pounding head.
“Edwards…his name is Mr. Edwards”.