Member-only story
When Maggie Went Away
Some kids!
I like it when the children come to visit. I like it better when they leave, but that explosion of noise and confusion jolts me out of my stupor, staves off something for another day or two.
I never had kids myself. In fact, it’s only since my nephew put me in this wheelchair warehouse that I’ve found I can stand the little monsters. There’s one in particular, a mouthy eleven year old with braces, freckles and an attitude that’s going to get her into trouble down the road: Maggie. I call her Maggie May because it’s too much fun to watch her splutter and roll her eyes. This one seems to seek me out.
“How come you’re so old?” She asks one day; it’s raining out so we’re all cooped up indoors together.
“Bad management.” I’m doing another jigsaw puzzle for lack of anything more interesting.
“I think the worst part of getting that old is that you get forgot.” Maggie’s leaning against my wheelchair; comfortable as a cat and twice as nosy.
“You think? Get those sharp, young eyes of yours over here and help me find this last piece of daffodil.” I could tell her a thing or two about what’s ‘worst’ about getting old.
“Ok.” She complies, rounding the card table to perch on the edge of a wobbly chair. “It’s like nothing you ever did matters, cuz…
