Myrtle
Myrtle
Myrtle Albright is standing in her bedroom but doesn’t know why she is there, and is only vaguely aware of getting there. Frowning, she casts her eyes about her. The familiar setting of her much loved sanctuary feels strange, out of kilter, and she an intruder. Standing there, distracted and bemused a ripple of unease passes through her. Her inner world feels violated, her tried and tested building blocks for daily living prodded at and rearranged. Her scalp tightens. Something appalling has followed her to her bedroom and is standing behind her. She has always been a practical no nonsense sort, but cannot summon the courage to turn around, so stands very still with her eyes closed. Standing there, deathly still with head down and eyes closed, the memory of what she was doing before coming to her bedroom comes flooding back. Suddenly all is as it should be. Raising her head her shoulders straighten, and her eyes, now open, harden. Giving an irritated shake of her shoulders she shrugs off the last few moments of confusion and unease, walks over to her reading chair and sits down. Leaning back she closes her eyes and settles into its comfortable embrace. Her much loved sanctuary is once again familiar and she very much welcome. After a few moments she opens her eyes and leans forward. There is work to be done.
Still seated in her reading chair, but no longer “lounging,” Myrtle is taking stock, ascertaining and assessing just who she is and what she is capable of doing. She is a 62 year old widow, her husband having died a little over three years ago. She is a mother, a mother-in-law and a grand-mother. She retired just over two years ago which makes her a pensioner. She likes to believe that she is also a friend. She is not an aunt or a cousin, both her and her husband were only children, and both her and her husband’s parents have passed on, making her wonder if the titles daughter and daughter-in-law still apply to her. If wife changes to widow when your husband dies, what effect does the passing on of your parents and in-laws have?
She knows that these titles do not convey who she is, or what she is capable of doing, in the same way that describing a car as blue with a steering wheel does not convey what type of car it is, or what it is capable of doing. She is however all of these things, and has not yet got to the physical, such as eye colour, height, weight, hair colour, left or right-handed, and has not touched on affiliations and beliefs, with their myriad possibilities. Does she believe in God or is she an atheist, is she a conservative or a liberal, does she believe in corporal punishment or the death penalty, is the earth round or flat, should beggars be helped or ignored, do trees, plants and flowers feel pain?
As Myrtle delves further and further into the bits and bobs that make up this complex being that is her, she realises that trying to figure out who she is, and what she is capable of doing, is a rather pointless and silly exercise. She is female, has auburn hair, does not believe in fairies, cannot abide loud or obnoxious people, likes her steak well done, does not like movies with sub-titles, and loves all animals. What on earth does any of this mean? Who in the heck is Myrtle, and what is she capable of doing?
The more she tries to understand this conundrum that is her, the more obvious it becomes that who she is, and what she is capable of doing does not matter a jot. It is absolutely impossible to answer these questions, there is just too much of her, there are simply too many components coming together to make up the whole. With the freeing gift of enlightenment and the buoyancy of inner peace she goes into the bathroom, looks at herself in the mirror, smiles brightly, flips a jaunty two finger salute off her right eyebrow and says to her reflection “Hi there Myrtle, I’m very pleased to meecha.”
Leaving the bathroom she goes into the kitchen where her neighbours little boy, Eric, sits gagged and tied to one of the kitchen chairs. He looks up at her with scared and pleading eyes. She looks down at him, smiles sweetly and says “You are not going to tease and hurt my little Georgie anymore are you Eric?” Georgie is her miniature Dachshund. The little boy shakes his head wildly from side to side. She crouches down in front of him, places her hands on his thighs, looks him in the eyes and says “You becha bottom dollar you’re not” She stands up, selects a carving knife from the knife-stand, nods to herself, and plunges the knife into the little boy’s heart. Looking down at him she says “Hi there Eric, meet Myrtle, I am she, all of she”
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