El Grito - Helen Rowntree

When is this going to end?

My soul is screaming. Enough!

I have wasted the last twenty years of my life –doing.

I don’t want to waste one more minute “doing”.

Doing what?

Volunteering. Fixing. Caring. Cooking.

Straightening things out. Putting things back.

Wiping. Sorting. Filing. Discarding. It never ends.

Who cares? Nobody cares.

They don’t even know you’re here.

People look at me with a vacant stare,

They bump into me at the store,

...then walk on.

My body hurts. Most of the time.

Walking is hard. Running? What’s that?

What am I going to do with all this stuff?

Where am I going to put it?

I need to find my father’s death notice.

I know it’s in one of those envelopes in the strong box.

Today I saw a small paper bag in there—

It’s imprinted with “Casa Hasbun”

a store in Santa Ana, El Salvador—

that little bag is seventy years old!

My first love—Juanito Hasbun, a Palestinian,

owned the store.

He’s undoubtedly dead by now.

And there’s much more in that strong box.

Memories! And more memories!

What do people do with their memories?

How can they just throw them out?

What’s going to happen to all the stuff

in that strong box, after I’m gone?

When is that going to happen? How will it end?

How can I last ‘till then? Ha! Ha!

I’ll last until I don’t.

The vision is getting blurry, the hearing is muffled.

The legs and feet are unreliable.

The hands and fingers don’t work like they used to.

I’m crotchety. I’m forgetful. I’m repetitious.

Taking a shower requires a lot of effort.

Dressing is a challenge.

I hate to shop. I hate to cook.

Stuff always needs to be put away.

The bed is wonderful—even when I can’t sleep.

I read a lot, even if I can’t follow the context

to the bottom of the page.

Articles are too long in the newspaper.

Why can’t they skip all the editorializing?

TV is boring. Who wants to know about every

killing, robbery, disaster?

Who wants to know about every infidelity,

drop in the Dow, political scam?

Who wants to hear the screamers

and the blabber mouths?

I’m wallowing in old age and

I can’t stand myself.

Oh well, it’s time to go to bed

and read one of my books.

I kiss Bob goodnight.

He really is a sweet guy.

I love my lumpy bed,

my books, the quiet.

An hour or two of cozy bliss,

then Unisom and melatonin.

Dreams and oblivion.

Tomorrow the whole thing

starts again. Thanks be to God.