Last Days in the Life of Tristan, Sad Husband of Isolde by Lena Solomon

         I           Smiling, my tea mug reminds me every morning that I need to take twenty pain pills to make it through the day. Too painful to smile back. Luckily, I can still browse through the old catalogue in my mind, in search for something that could cheer me up. And, there it is: the song of a nightingale, somewhere far away, in a forest, a long time ago,. A bird, perhaps a sign that may free me from the prison of my body: a bird flying, broad open white wings, small head, so free, so delicate. No, not white wings, perhaps blue, to blend with the sky. That makes me feel so light, I could balance myself on one finger …like a molecule of air… Oh, but my mind is heavier than a molecule of air, so heavy I need to attach it to my head with all the thin cords of my memory, to drag it away from under the burden of the twenty morning pain pills.

         II         Yesterday was my son’s birthday. The pills didn’t work and I couldn’t walk. I cried. Through tears I watched the party on my phone; they were all dancing and laughing. No one could see me, so I banged my head against the wall and screamed for a while. When Isolde came home from the party, I tried to make her laugh. I was so good at telling jokes… and stories. Everybody listened to me, but no, not her, not now! I tried to talk to her, but she snapped, “Shut up, look at the paper or watch TV!” and I cried again. I couldn’t scream because it would have bothered her.  I took a handful of morphine pills and fell asleep. 

         III      I was once a good dancer too. But my legs are weak now. I keep falling and my legs keep bleeding, but not as much as my soul.

         IV       I tried to get a plum from the big box in the fridge this morning.  Isolde was sleeping, I watched her, she is old too and tired, tired of life… with me. Yesterday, I fell again and hurt my arm. She bandaged my wound late at night. I did not want to wake her up so early this morning. The box fell from my hands. I kneeled, couldn’t get up. I sat on my knees, cried and ate the plum.

         V          When I cry, the cat comes and jumps on my lap, looks at me with wide-open eyes. When I stop crying, he goes to sleep on his favourite spot, on the window ledge. He watches the pastoral view of the garden, his eyes swiftly close. Purring he signals to all the things around all is fine. A few hours later, the birds’ chirping wakes him up. He then keeps vigil until mesmerized by the rhythmic movement of the trees, purrs and closes his eyes again. But when the clock strikes 4:17, possessed by the little green Devil of the Magic Mountain, the cat arches his back, jumps sideways, onto the kitchen counter, onto the dining room table, on my lap, on Isolde’s chair, on my lap again, makes war noises, then breathing heavily stops. Purring again signals to all the things around all is fine.

I smile and ask him about the fight.

         VI       I planned to catch the green Devil of the Magic Mountain, he purrs. Annoying creature, long tail, small eyes, and no fur, like a gecko. Did you see how I chased it everywhere? Then, I looked at you, and you looked strange; I licked your face and tasted salty liquid dripping down. You shouldn’t worry, all is fine, I caught it.

         VII    Isolde has left for work now. I can still talk and move my eyes, but I cannot get up anymore. I watch the cat brushing against my leg, his eyes fixed on mine. “Isolde sometimes talks to me” I tell him. “Once, she used to love me and my stories, and I loved her. She was kind. We were both young. But now, it is just you and I. Do you remember what it feels like to be in love, Jojo?”  I do. I feel in love with you Tristan when you feed me, when we watch baseball and you scratch my head, and when I curl up at night on that soft pillow between you and Isolde, a little closer to you, of course, because you’re softer.  

         VIII                      It’s cold now and you have no fur. You see, I think the green Devil of the Magic Mountain brought in the winter. And now you fell off the bed. Isolde is not here yet and I can curl up next to you to keep you warm, and I can purr softly, next to your ear and we could both fall asleep. Listen, that song on the radio again. I don’t know what it means but I like it:

Life spills like water through time’s fingers

winding, always a-changing,

most caterpillars become butterflies

 before they die, you know?

Why do you sound so sad, are you afraid?

I know you’ll never say,

Since the Universe is perfect,

you cannot complain

Stars, God’s eyes of ice,

watch over us

Behind your wife’s smile,

bitter as the ocean her tears

she knows you have no more time

your soul, a flutter of wings in the wind

now

Life spills like water through time’s fingers

winding, always a-changing, continuous flow…

         IX       Tristan, you are so quiet. I had my breakfast, but I guess you forgot the treats you always give me soon after breakfast. Have you noticed that the music stopped? I like listening to music; it fills my soul and I can keep the rhythm with my purring. But I’ll purr anyway and won’t leave your side before Isolde comes home, because you smell sad.      

Romanian-born Lena Solomon is a clinical psychologist and a neuropsychologist by profession and a writer by visceral need. She is passionate about writing and music. Her literary work often echoes reflections on the lives she touched. The literary colours she creates aim to paint the fantastic reality of dreams. “October” a poetry book and “ Ariya's Odyssey” a children’s book are two of her published works. Some of her poems appeared in Of The Book Press. She is a member of the Ontario Poetry Society. She also published research papers in professional journals.