The Man and his Cane

Unbeknown to him I rest in the corner of the room, where the two yellowing walls meet. I can feel his breath glide over me with each sigh, tainted by the faint scent of cigarettes. A pair of worn-down, wrinkling hands once filled by the warmth of another have now gone cold. Instead, pages of a newspaper replace the void of those soft fingers that used to intertwine with his, fitting as though they were the final piece to the puzzling enigma this man was.

He lets out another deep sigh and turns the page.

It pains me to see him like this, lost with nowhere to turn, I try my best to guide him though I can only do so much before I am banished, carelessly to my corner again. I’m his only companion now, it’s just the man and his cane.

Only in the evenings do I come alive, awakened and propelled into motion with the harsh squeeze of his tired palm. I wonder why he holds onto me so tightly and I have plenty of time to ponder this, sometimes I go on theorising for hours. However, I always find myself coming back to one thought, one which weighs on me dearly, so heavy it makes his weight seem like nothing. His tight grasp is driven by the fear of letting go, losing me, his companion. He couldn't go through that. Not again.

Yet I digress; each evening, after I have awoken from what seems to be my hibernation, I am put into my starting position, ready to embark on my next journey. Briefly, as I’m being lifted, I feel as though I have been transported to a different place, a place of joy, until that high is swiftly killed by the great shock that is me being aggressively slammed into the ground, accompanied by a deafening thud. Stationary for a moment I gather my senses, aware I am rocking side to side rather vigorously as a result of the wiggly-looseness below his elbow. Then I wait, until at last we set off.

However this evening was different, the rhythm and routine we had built up and carefully crafted together, paying attention to each insignificant detail had been broken. Rather than opening the door and thrusting me out first to face the elements, we stayed still with the exception of my shaking, side to side. I stood, waiting, confused. Then at once, with no warning, I was released from his grasp and sent hurling back towards my corner, welcomed with a harsh landing, recoiling off the stony walls several times, peering over as he turned
and walked away.

Now he is alone again and I rest, leaning against my corner; abandoned or forgotten, I haven’t yet decided which is less painful. The man returns to his armchair just as I return to watching him. Yet this time he does not reach for his fraying newspaper, but instead his sorry eyes wander, to the empty chair opposite him.