literature

Sensei

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Literature Text

The old man sits in his chair, facing the window so that he can see all the children walk past. He gets sick of bird watching after a while, he says. His friend talks of the teachers going on strike, of things happening at work, but all the man can think of is why the inhaler is so difficult to manage.

I'm trying to ignore the shaking of his hands, so different to demonstrating something at the front of what best resembles a classroom. I look away at his friend, my father, when the old man reaches for his glass. I don't want to see his shaking, and I wonder if the man notices me look away. So much love but not wanting to show too much lest it comes out as sympathy, or worst of all, pity for an old man on his way to a grave too early. We're not ready to let go of him yet. He's not an old man, nowhere near it, and there are worse people we'd do better without.

Not this guy.

Not the guy who, despite a broken eye (from the broken end of a glass bottle as a hell's angel) and missing finger (lost it at work), is still entirely more lovely and functional than most of the teenagers around on the streets. Not the guy who used to stuff me with polos when I was waiting for a class to end, waiting for the Christmas party to begin. The reckoning is that this guy won't see the next Christmas.

A collapsed lung, they say, and complications. I say take your collapsed lung, grim reaper, and stuff it.
I refuse to put this in 'memoir', and 'emotional' is the next best thing.
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Ari-Ella's avatar
this made me cry.