Medically Boarded
Sitting in his customary cane chair on the veranda, he slips his monthly disability cheque into his top pocket. He has touched up his hair with his wife’s black hair dye; the moustache looks incongruously pale by comparison, shot through with grey. His wife is conscientiously sweeping the veranda with a broom that has seen better days. She taps his feet with the broom. He stoically ignores the hint to lift his feet. Instead, bending forward, he rubs the imaginary aching spot on his back.
The school bus returning with the netball team stops right in front of their door, the timetable of which he is well familiar with at this stage. He spirits a comb that looks like a child teething, out of his sock. He combs his hair and getting up he runs his pale hands down his faded jeans shorts, ironing out imaginary creases. His khaki shirt that has seen better days, is neatly tucked into the top of his shorts; the buttons strain to cover his ample stomach. Reaching the bus, he offers to help carry the netball tog bags. Old habits die hard.
His wife calls out: ‘You are not a porter anymore; someone will report you to the Railways,’ but as always he chooses to ignore her. The girls giggle behind their hands.
THE END
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