Disillusion of Wisdom

         There it lay, among the dust and the clutter, the boxes and the endless stacks of paper; there lay my father’s journal. They said he had been dead for nearly two weeks when they found him trapped behind the door of his bedroom that had been boarded up with thick plywood, the sawdust still strewn about the room making it thick with debris. I saw long, deep scratches and carvings scattered throughout the deep oak floors, the same floors that structured the house he and my mother had bought nearly 50 years ago.

            It had been four years and six months since I had last seen my father, and even then he was merely a shadow of his former self. I doubt I would even recognize the man they found here just thirteen days ago, trapped and empty. I picked up the leather bound journal between my hands and felt the smooth calf skin caress my palms. I opened the cover, unprepared for what I was about to see inside, but what I was about to learn would change me forever…

I

If they think that they will take me, they are wrong. I see their glaring eyes through the slats in my windows, and their whispers from beyond my front porch. They want me gone, they want me dead. They think that I am useless; they no longer see my value. But if they think I am not going without a fight, they are wrong…

II

Today is the day I am free. I have turned the last lock, and there is no going back. I have installed not one, but 4 deadbolts on the front and back doors. The windows are boarded and nailed shut. I look down at my hands; I admire what they have just accomplished. They all see the wrinkling, the weathering of my hands, they think that they are useless and are no longer valuable. But this is not what I see. I see the indentation of the wedding band I have worn for nearly fifty years, and the commitments that I have made. I see the scars from years of labor that has made me strong and durable. I see the wrinkles that have developed with my wisdom. Where others see nothing, I see a man with seventy-six years of stories, memories and knowledge. I am proud of what I see.

III

My daughter called today at 3:02 p.m. My telephone service was cancelled by 3:08 p.m.

IV

It has been twenty-nine days since my exile. I hear knocks on my door from time to time, but they appear much less frequently now. Do they really think I am that naïve? I may not be as sharp as I once was, but I am certainly more intelligent. Wherever they are trying to take me, whatever they are trying to do to me, I will always be one step ahead of them.

V

There are children playing on the sidewalk in front of my house today. I peek through the cracks in the boarded up windows to see them gathered in a small circle, their noses pushed up against the screens of their cell phones. I begin to wonder what has happened to this generation. When I was young, you respected your elders, and now they don’t respect much of anything. I feel a seed of hate in me, planting its roots deep inside of me and beginning to flower. I quickly duck away as one of them turns their gaze in my direction. They must be in on it too; someone must have sent them here. I move up to my bedroom with more sheets of plywood in hand. I nail and saw until no one can ever find me again.

VI

I am feeling more weak and famished than ever before. One could argue that I have not had a decent meal since my wife died, but now it has been nearly two weeks without substantial nourishment. But I cannot go out there. The second I step foot outside they will come for me, I can feel them lurking and waiting to strike. I will ration what I have left, that is far better than encountering the outside world. I have seen the homes that they put us in; I have seen the neglect and the inhumane treatment. How can they do this to us? We have worked for their generation and their generation’s generation, and yet they toss us to the side like rubbish. But not me, I will not be one of them.

VII

I have begun burrowing a system of tunnels within my house. I can feel them closing in on me; I am beginning to suffocate. I hear their voices all around me; I feel them inside of me. I know it is only a matter of time before they destroy the fortress I have built. So I have constructed a series of tunnels and trenches that will lead me underneath the house when they come for me. The thought of it makes me want to laugh, those fools. I can already hear them downstairs; they are living in my home and burrowing inside of my walls.

VIII

This will be my last entry; this will be the last day that I live. They have come for me, they are taking me away. They have begun to eat at my skin, to burrow inside of my mind, and they have taken my precious memories. I am a shadow of the man I once was. I will leave you with this; do not take your time for granted. We appreciate new far more than we appreciate the old. This is an injustice. Graying hair and wrinkling skin is a beautiful sign of a long and knowledgeable life. For these things deserve praise and appreciation, not isolation and banishment. Value and respect your elders, for we have lived far greater than what you have; learn from our mistakes and treasure our memories.

            I am leaving now, never to return. Remember me fondly not by what you see now, but what you have loved in the past. There is nothing more that I can do. They are closing in; I feel the restraints around my wrists and the forceful hands tugging at my weak body.  I feel a warm liquid pooling around me, it is comforting. I see the black spots in my vision and the life pour from my body. This will be the end now; this will be all that I have fought for…

            Dementia. That’s what the doctors called it. I decided to keep the diary for myself, never to share with anyone. I chose to remember him as a loving father, a faithful husband, and a kind and gentle spirit. It was hard to remember that man though; as I look around the boarded home that I grew up in, strewn with newspaper clippings and bloody marks on the walls. I see gaping holes in the floorboards that he had dug with his hands and paranoid messages he had scribbled across the walls. It was time for me to go, I couldn’t look at this place a minute longer, and I couldn’t bear to see what my father had become. Just as I was turning to leave, I noticed a small sentence scratched into the corner baseboard of the room.

You never came for me. Now, I’ll be coming back for you.

-Dad