Within and Without the Mind of One

We Wither With the World

      My first memory with you lies on that sunny day in fall, as the leaves were beginning to brown and the air presented a chill. The tangerines were in bloom, though why they were ripe so late, you couldn't say. As we sat on that brown bench, we ate. The tangy taste of tangerines lingered on my tongue and the sour burn of its skin kissed my nose. The sun, bright and hot that afternoon, bore into my flesh as a butterfly flittered by. Birds returned home from the hunt, the rhythmic whapping of their wings echoing in the breeze. As we consumed the tangerines, a ball of arburn fur was thrown into lap. Brown eyes met mine and a whine resonated from the body attached to the head.
"Go away," I grumbled, and the dog sat back on her hind legs.
"Sherry just wants some tangerines," you said with a coo, tossing her a slice. I gave her my peel, my trash, for I was not willing to give her the lively fruit within my palms. I watched as she licked up the peel, chewed once, and spit it out. I threw more peels, but she never let the flavour absorb her taste buds again.
"Why'd she spit it out?" I asked you.
"Because she doesn't like the way it tastes."
     Sundays were my favourite. I always awoke to the succulent smell of bacon. It rose through the vents and, when it met me, dust had weakened the saltiness and instead made it sweet. Before you could call for me, I was by your side and waiting for instruction. I knew my task but I wanted to hear your command.
"Set the table, please."
     With that, my childish frame came to life and I buzzed around the kitchen. I would mouth the items I needed: Butter-- check. Syrup-- yes. Milk? Nope. Too heavy. Once my task was completed, you placed the plate of food in front of me. Butter was always lying in it's corner. The creamy, salty-sweet of it was my favourite and, if I could, I would steal globs straight from the container. Instead of taking the butter away completely, you left some for me. It was my fix.
     Those days have since been washed away with the waves of time, as has his health. When I visit my grandfather, all I can hear is the wheezing of his damaged lungs and his groans of pain. The lights are always dimmed, casting shadows along his ashen face. His thin frame cannot stand long enough to make breakfast but that's okay. Butter makes me gag anyway. All he can say is he's sorry he cannot be there for me, sorry he cannot go outside, how he wishes he and I could eat tangerines like we once did; but what would be the point? The skies are always darkened, the trunks of the trees groan to reflect his ebbing mortality and their leaves wheeze as they shiver. It is autumn once again and the leaves are brown-- they will fall soon. There is no arburn fur to greet me for cancer had taken Sherry's life many years ago. I wish that I could spit out my consciousness as it has grown more sour than the skins of the world and though death is inevitable, I cannot help but find myself hoping to give my mortality away just to help him stay a little bit longer. I remember many years ago, he told me he was sick. I had asked why and he simply replied,
"I smoked."
     Now we must all watch, helpless as you wither away with the world. All is well, however, for we will all follow you someday.