Late
night TV on the BBC,
more
scary than the latest horror movie:
three
shiny presenters, glib, well-fed,
none
of them much over thirty,
exchange
smart remarks
and
laugh and laugh
to
think that people might die.
But
wait. It's ok.
These
are not real people.
They
are only, after all, 'the elderly';
they
are not, what is more,
the
elderly well-off
but
the sad and shambling poor.
'If
they die,' so goes the argument,
'that's
a good thing, isn't it?
It
will help us solve the problem
of
their pensions.'
'There
are too many of them.'
More
high-pitched laughter.
Laugh?
I could have
laughed
till I cried.
I
did cry this morning.
It
weighed all through the night,
this
wondering what end might await me:
to
be 'passed over', not to be treated
in
favour of the young and the fit;
of
course, lightly sedated,
I
might simply slip away
just
a kiss in the pale crook of my elbow.
No
pain, perhaps, but not to be mourned,
no
evil-smelling, difficult good-byes.
You
are never old inside,
my
grandmother said;
and
she lived to be cosseted and wept for.
Surely,
I have given as much
and
yet it's all such a laugh.
Abigail Wyatt
No comments:
Post a Comment