Writing Portfolio
The Libation Bearer
The dawn rises beyond a ridge of fresh tombstones and colorful bouquets. Interred within the fruiting necropolis, a crowd is gathered around a mound of fragrant humus. At a distance, one can see frowned grimaces stamped upon their faces, pouring out tears upon the ground. Slow as a crawl at first, the mass of manners grows into a steady march away from the recently deceased. They disperse through the arrayed channels of stones, like oil through the cracks of wet concrete. A girl is the last to leave. She fits her feet into footprints of those left behind and follows them out as they leave this terminus of life. After she passes, a man emerges from behind a family crypt, watching her disappear.
He is dressed in blue medical scrubs. On his face are a pair of Warby Parker knockoffs and an N-95 face mask. He makes for the exit. As he departs the threshold of the fenced gate, his head tilts upward toward the sun.
He begins walking south along a sidewalk. Not soon after does the sidewalk disappear, and the serenity of a graveyard turns into the grave intensity of a suburban neighborhood. Each lawn is a battlefield of leaf blowers and power tools. Rows upon rows of plots are occupied by monuments of neoliberal success. Inside the plywood castles are TVs alternatingly tuned into Fox News or CNN; outside are parked BMWs, Mercedes, or Chevrolet Suburbans. Roughly a third of the houses have wheelchair access installed.
The man stops for a moment in front of one of the homes. It is grey, with stained paneling much in need of a power wash. The patchy lawn is maintained well enough, but weeds peer through cracks at the bases of jagged rhododendrons hugging the foundation. His eyes stray to the second floor where he notices a light left on, peering at him through green curtains. He stands there staring at it for a couple of minutes, as if waiting for the curtains to close. His hand starts to tremble. He forces them in his pocket and feels around for something, which seems to calm his nerves. Once again, he gazes at the sun and finally decides to leave. Before he goes, he shoves the four-month-old “For sale” sign posted in front right beside the bent mailbox. The sign reverberates back in forth, waving him goodbye for the last time.
Reaching the end of the neighborhood, the man spies his destination. Across the ruckus of a busy four lane road can be seen a mangled mass of gables and ornamental storm shudders, with a whitewashed portico as the centerpiece. The pediment displays in large lettering: “Argos Retirement Community”.
He heads along the shoulder until reaching a crosswalk. A bum sits cross-legged beneath the pedestrian button. There is a cardboard sign propped up against his chest reading “Navy Veteran, God Bless.” The man flips a quarter into an old can by the bum’s knees. The bum looks up at the man with feverish eyes.
“Ah, thank you young man. If you don’t mind, I’ll push that there button. A token of my thanks.”
After a two-minute wait, the man crosses over.
The building is surrounded by a parterre, consisting of hedged boxwood forming narrow allées. Beds of begonias, petunias, and geraniums surround plaster St. Francis statues and fountains arrayed on axis. Here and there is an odd dogwood in bloom, and a few ancient oaks wrinkle out of the ground. Young women push the senior inhabitants in wheelchairs while an army of strong men preen any irregularities. Falling on deaf ears to all except the non-nonagenarians, one can hear the din of a Sunday chorus emanating from a chapel next door.
The man loses himself in the garden grounds. His eyes focus on the raised mounds of flowers. Reaching the end of a tunnel of leaves opens up into a circular sitting area with a fountain resplendent with waxen lily pads as the focal point. Dotted along the periphery are residents sitting in wheelchairs, like white lashes around a green eye. He makes his way to a snoring wheelchair and starts pushing the resident towards the portico. Eyes glare at him as he creaks past swaying rocking chairs through the double doors.
The retirement community is busy with idleness. Bags of bones run rampant with their walkers through the halls alongside exasperated nurse chaperones. Baroque orchestral music can be heard on the loudspeakers, drowning out the mumblings of its confused inhabitants. The man parks his wheelchaired cargo in front of an empty front desk while he fingers through a stack of sign-in papers. After a minute of fumbling, he resumes pushing the wheelchair toward the cafeteria.
The cafeteria is open with a good view of the garden outside. Tables are full of slurping sounds and open mouths chewing gums. A cough is heard, followed by a mechanical repartee of clueless “whats?”. Any time a table vacancy is made, a team of busboys meticulously wipe away any mess left behind as if removing evidence. The man finds an empty spot at a table of sleeping seniors and deposits his wheelchair cargo. He then finds a tray and assembles a bowl of oatmeal slop and takes a plate of poached eggs hollandaise on an English muffin. He fills a mug halfway with coffee, grabs a handful of creamer and sugar-free sugar, and fits them to the corner of the tray. He proceeds to leave, but he is compelled again to put his hand in his pocket and stop. He looks around and sights a pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice at the end of a service counter. He pours some of it into a plastic cup, places it on the tray, and then resumes his way.
The nursery of noise dampens to garbled tv nonsense as he proceeds deeper into the building’s corridors. Aggravated barks, defensive posturing, and stifled snores seep beneath the cracks of the lined-up doors. The man finally stops in front of one and knocks. A muffled grunt is the response, followed by a minute long crescendo of sliding slipper sounds. The door opens.
Bleached hair resembling an 18th century periwig greets him. A sun-scarred woman, her dry skin is akin to a pile of brass raisins, and she stands hunched over at 5’2”. Her downcast laugh lines form a sine wave with her smile, giving her face the appearance of the masks of drama superimposed on each other.
“What is it?” the woman asks. “Ah, breakfast. Good, I’m starving. I hate the crap they call food here, none of it’s fresh. It’s almost like you people are trying to poison me! But come in, come in!”
The man enters. The room is a cozy collection of homely items. Photos, presumably family, line the walls alongside charming children’s artwork. Shelves of unopened self-help and financial advice books neatly fill gaps in any awkward spaces. There is a sign displaying “LIVE, LAUGH, LOVE!” across the entry door, yelling louder than the shouts from the morning talk show hosts on television in the nearby sitting area.
“I don’t recognize you…” she says, “no, you look familiar! Have I seen you before? Usually Felipe looks after me, is he out today? Are you new here? Do you know Felipe? I like him, but sometimes he gets on my nerves. Does he know you’re filling in for him? Where have we met before? I swear, you look familiar. My, you have such beautiful green eyes! They look just like–“
“I am new,” he interrupts, “and I’m filling in for Felipe.”
“Well, I can see you’re not much for talking. Good thing I’m an excellent conversationalist! I’m talk enough for two!”
The woman points the man to a small table to lay down the tray. After placing it down he stares at the pictures on the wall. His eyes land on a family photo. A man in his 30s wearing a Dress Blue “B”, the woman, much younger, and their young son and daughter.
“That was my husband. Was. A big shot marine, and a pig. Ran off with some young bitch he met oversees. My son adored him, but he’s dead to me”
“Sounds like quite the patriot.”
“’Patriotism is the last refuge for the scoundrel.’ He was a patriot all right. His patriotism killed our family. Killed him too. He didn’t care for the kids, that’s for damn sure. My son was just like him, treating family like dirt to be swept off the floor. He was awful to me. Awful. Me, his only mother. His Mother! I took care of him, I raised him… the way he treated me! He left me, don’t know where. He never calls. I haven’t heard from him in years. He’s just like his father…”
“I’m sure he had his reasons for leaving.”
A moment of quiet. The man focuses now on the green eyes of the girl in the family photograph.
“Oh, my Lucy…” The woman says. “She was such an angel, my daughter. She listened to me, stayed with me where others left. And then she got sick. Got paler, started coughing more… And yet, she still took care of me through it all.” She sighs. “In the end, she left me too…”
“Mrs. Medea, why don’t you eat your breakfast while I prepare for you a bath?”
“They buried her, don’t you know? They buried my sweet Lucy right around the corner from here. My poor baby! She was such an angel, she drank up everything I gave her. She gave her life for family. She was such an angel… Nothing like my son…”
“Mrs. Medea.”
“my damn husband…”
“Mrs. Medea!”
“What?”
“Why don’t I prepare you a bath while you eat your breakfast?”
“A bath! Yes, I could do with a clean after such filthy topics! Did Felipe fill you in? I’ve been taking morning baths since my momma first forced me to as a girl. I used to have my children bring me a glass of…”
“Yes, I know all about your baths. I’ll start it. Eat your breakfast”
He moves to the bathroom and begins to fill the tub with hot water. He finds in the faucet cabinet a bottle of bath suds, which he pours in the rising tide. As the bubbles begin to froth and steam rises, he stares at his reflection in the water. It is as though memories flow through his mind, so deep has he plunged in concentration. Echoes of the past sing as the water plashes, misting over the mirror a ghostly impression. His face reddens, and so do his eyes. Blinded by tears and fog now stained on his glasses, he exits the bathroom for fresh air and clear-sighted purpose.
“It’s ready.” He says, his voice quivering a bit.
She sits at the table, watching the television. Her tray of food is a mess, it looks like the items were merely rearranged in an attempt at abstract art. She turns to the man, holding the cup of orange juice in her hand.
“*ahem*… Felipe used to turn his head while I, uh, slipped a little something strong into my morning juice, if you catch my drift. Would you mind if…”
“Vodka. Of course. Where do you keep it? I can prepare it for you.”
“Would you? It’s in the cabinet, just over there. At the top. No, not that one! Yes, yes that’s it. You’re such a good boy! There’s nothing like a little glass of sunshine to sip one strong and rise into a new day. Let me get ready for the bath.”
She walks into the adjoining bedroom. The man opens the cabinet and finds a tall carafe of vodka. He grabs it, takes his time unscrewing the cap as he walks to the table, and pours a bit in the cup of orange juice. After resealing the carafe, his eyes stray upon the family portrait again. The sun’s glare emblazons over the father’s head, making his sight seek refuge in the visage of the girl. A twitch erupts in the corner of the man’s eye, and his fingers begin twitching frenetically. He slips his hand into his pocket, takes a deep, steadying breath, and produces a small black bottle. As he unscrews the lid, a fine fragrance of chopped almonds whispers its secrets to his nostrils.
The woman leaves her bedroom in a regal purple bathrobe. The man hands her a neatly folded towel in one hand, and the juice in the other.
“Enjoy.” He says.
She takes the items and flashes the man a motherly smile. She goes inside the bathroom, closes the door, and starts humming a tune. The man’s sight is once more pierced by the glint of the sun reflecting off the family photo on the wall, before it is extinguished by the passing time, and he leaves.
The door closes. Tears billow below his drooping, burning eyes. The hallways extend out infinitely in front of him, the strange noises coming from behind the doors never ceasing to awaken bitter memories. He stumbles, shambles his way back to the entrance hall, following in the footsteps of the man who came before. As he leaves the double door entryway, a team of gentle chair rockers glare hatefully behind him.
John Kersting 