Follow up to the old lady's poem

This poem was written in the diary of an old woman  who died in the geriatric ward of a small hospital near Dundee, Scotland. It was felt that this old woman had nothing left of value, but this poem was found in her diary by a nurse at the hospital. Since then, this poem has been spread from Scotland to Ireland...enjoy!

An old lady's poem

What do you see, nurses, what do you see?
What are you thinking when you're looking at me?
A crabby old woman, not very wise,
Uncertain of habit, with faraway eyes?
Who dribbles her food and makes no reply""
Who seems not to notice the things that you do,
And forever is losing a stocking or shoe....
Who, resisting or not, lets you do as you will,
With bathing and feeding, the long day to fill....
Then open your eyes, nurse; you're not looking at me.
I'll tell you who I am as I sit here so still,
As I do at your bidding, as I eat at your will.
I'm a small child of ten...with a father ! and mother,
Brothers and sisters, who love one another.
A young girl of sixteen, with wings on her feet,
Dreaming that soon now a lover she'll meet.
A bride soon at twenty--my heart gives a leap,
Remembering the vows that I promised to keep.
At twenty-five now, I have young of my own,
Who need me to guide and a secure happy home.
A woman of thirty, my young now grown fast,
Bound to each other with ties that should last.
At forty, my young sons have grown and are gone,
But my man's beside me to see I don't mourn.
At fifty once more, babies play around my knee,
Again we know children, my loved one and me.
Dark days are upon me, my husband is dead;
I look at the future, I shudder with dread.
For my young are all rearing young of their own,
And I think of the years and the love that I've known.
 I'm now an old woman....and nature is cruel;
Tis jest to make old age look like a fool.
The body, it crumbles, grace and vigor depart,
There is now a stone where I once had a heart.
But inside this old carcass a young girl still dwells,
And now and again my battered heart swells.
I remember the joys, I remember the pain,
And I'm loving and living life over again.
I think of the years....all too few, gone too fast,
And accept the stark fact that nothing can last.
So open your eyes, nurses, open and see,
 ...Not a crabby old woman; look closer...see ME!!

Love

On my wedding day, I carried my wife in my arms. The bridal car stopped in front of our one-room flat. My buddies insisted that I carry her out of the car in my arms. So I carried her into our home. She was then plump and shy. I was a strong and happy bridegroom.

 This was the scene of ten years ago. The following days were as simple as a cup of pure water. We had a kid, I went into business and tried to make more money. When the assets were steadily increasing, the affections between us seemed to ebb. She was a civil servant. Every morning we left home together and got home almost at the same time. Our kid was studying in a boarding school. Our marriage life seemed to be enviably happy. But the calm life was more likely to be affected by unpredictable changes.

Dew came into my life.

 It was a sunny day. I stood on a spacious balcony. Dew hugged me from behind. My heart once again was immersed in her stream of love. This was the apartment I bought for her. Dew said, "You are the kind of man who best draws girl's eyeballs." Her words suddenly reminded me of my wife. When we just married, my wife said "Men like you, once successful, will be very attractive to girls." Thinking of this, I became somewhat hesitant. I knew I had betrayed my wife. But I couldn't help doing so.

 I moved Dew's hands aside and said, "You go to select some furniture, O.K.? I've got something to do in the company." Obviously she was unhappy, because I had promised her to go and see with her. At the moment, the idea of divorce became clearer in my mind although it used to be something impossible to me. However, I found it rather difficult to tell my wife about it. No matter how mildly I mentioned it to her, she would be deeply hurt. Honestly, she was a good wife. Every evening she was busy preparing dinner. I was sitting in front of the TV. The dinner was ready soon. Then we watched TV together or, I was lounging before the computer, visualising Dew's body. This was the means of my entertainment.

One day I said to her in a slight joking way. "Suppose we divorce, what will you do?" She stared at me for a few seconds without a word. Apparently she believed that divorce was something too far away from her. I couldn't imagine how she would react once she got to know I was serious.

 When my wife went to my office, Dew had just stepped out. Almost all the staff looked at my wife with a sympathetic eye and tried to hide something while talking with her. She seemed to have got some hint. She gently smiled at my subordinates. But I read some hurt in her eyes.

 Once again, Dew said to me. "He Ning, divorce her, O.K.?" Then we live together. I nodded. I knew I could not hesitate any more.

 When my wife served the last dish, I held her hand. "I've got something to tell you". She sat down and ate quietly. Again I observed the hurt in her eyes. Suddenly I didn't know how to open my mouth. But I had to let her know what I was thinking. I want to divorce. I raised the serious topic calmly. She didn't seem to be much annoyed by my words, instead she asked me softly, "Why?" I'm serious. I avoided her question. This so-called answer turned her angry. She threw away the chopsticks and shouted at me. "You are not a man!" At that night, we didn't talk to each other. She was weeping. I knew she wanted to find out what had happened to our marriage. But I could hardly give her a satisfactory answer, because my heart had gone to Dew.

 With a deep sense of guilt, I drafted a divorce agreement which stated that she could own our house, our car, and 30% stake of my company. She glanced at it and then tore it into pieces. I felt a pain in my heart. The woman who had been living ten years with me would become a stranger one day. But I could not take back what I had said. Finally she cried loudly in front of me, which was what I had expected to see. To me her cry was actually a kind of release. The idea of divorce which had obsessed me for several weeks seemed to be firmer and clearer.

 A late night, I came back home after entertaining my clients. I saw her writing something at the table. I fell asleep fast. When I woke up, I found she was still there. I turned over and was asleep again. She brought up her divorce conditions. She didn't want anything from me, but I was supposed to give her one month's time before divorce, and in the month's time we must live as normal life as possible. Her reason was simple. Our son would finish his summer vacation a month later and she didn't want him to see our marriage broken. She passed me the agreement she drafted, and then asked me, "He Ning, do you still remember how I entered our bridal room on the wedding day?" This question suddenly brought back all those wonderful memories to me. I nodded and said, "I remember." "You carried me in your arms." She continued, "So, I have a requirement, that is, you carry me out in your arms on the day when we divorce. From now to the end of this month, you must carry me out from the bedroom to the door every morning." I accepted with a smile. I knew she missed those sweet days and wished to end her marriage with a romantic form.

 I told Dew about my wife's divorce conditions. She laughed loudly and thought it was absurd. "No matter what tricks she does, she has to face the result of divorce." She said scornfully. Her words more or less made me feel uncomfortable.

 My wife and I hadn't had any body contact since my divorce intention was explicitly expressed. We even treated each other as a stranger. So when I carried her out for the first day, we both appeared clumsy. Our son clapped behind us, daddy is holding mummy in his arms. His words brought me a sense of pain. From the bedroom to the sitting room, then to the door, I walked over ten meters with her in my arms.

She closed her eyes and said softly. "Let us start from today, don't tell our son." I nodded, feeling somewhat upset. I put her down outside the door. She went to wait for bus, I drove to office.

 On the second day, both of us acted much more easily. She leaned on my chest. We were so close that I could smell the fragrance of her blouse. I realised that I hadn't looked at this intimate woman carefully for a long time. I found she was not young any more. There were some fine wrinkles on her face.

 On the third day, she whispered to me, "The outside garden is being demolished. Be careful when you pass there."

 On the fourth day, when I lifted her up, I seemed to feel that we were still an intimate couple and I was holding my sweetheart in my arms. The visualisation of Dew became vaguer.

On the fifth and sixth day, she kept reminding me something, such as, where she put the ironed shirts, I should be careful while cooking, etc. I nodded. The sense of intimacy was even stronger. I didn't tell Dew about this. I felt it was easier to carry her. Perhaps the everyday workout made me stronger.

 I said to her, "It seems not difficult to carry you now." She was picking her dresses. I was waiting to carry her out. She tried quite a few but could not find a suitable one. Then she sighed, "All my dresses have grown fatter." I smiled. But I suddenly realised that it was because she was thinner that I could carry her more easily, not because I was stronger. I knew she had buried all the bitterness in her heart. Again, I felt a sense of pain. Subconsciously I reached out a hand to touch her head. Our son came in at the moment. "Dad, it's time to carry mum out." He said. To him, seeing his father carrying his mother out had been an essential part of his life. She gestured our son to come closer and hugged him tightly. I turned my face because I was afraid I would change my mind at the last minute. I held her in my arms, walking from the bedroom, through the sitting room, to the hallway. Her hand surrounded my neck softly and naturally. I held her body tightly, as if we came back to our wedding day. But her much lighter weight made me sad.

On the last day, when I held her in my arms I could hardly move a step. Our son had gone to school. She said, "Actually I hope you will hold me in your arms until we are old." I held her tightly and said, "Both you and I didn't notice that our life was lack of such intimacy."

 I jumped out of the car swiftly without locking the door. I was afraid any delay would make me change my decision. I walked upstairs. Dew opened the door. I said to her, "Sorry, Dew, I won't divorce. I'm serious." She looked at me, astonished. Then she touched my forehead, "You got no fever." I moved her hand off my head. "Sorry, Dew. I can only say sorry to you.

 I won't divorce. My marriage life was boring probably because she and I didn't value the details of life, not because we didn't love each other any more. Now I understand that since I carried her into the home, she gave birth to our child, I am supposed to hold her until I am old. So I have to say sorry to you."

Dew seemed to suddenly wake up. She gave me a loud slap and then slammed the door and burst into cry. I walked downstairs and drove to the office.

When I passed the floral shop on the way, I ordered a bouquet for my wife which was her favourite. The salesgirl asked me to write the greeting words on the card. I smiled and wrote. "I'll carry you out every morning until we are old."

“The success of love is in the loving—it is not in the result of loving. Of course it is natural in love to want the best for the other person, but whether it turns out that way or not does not determine the value of what we have done. The more we can remove this priority for results the more we can learn about the contemplative element of love. There is the love expressed in the service and the love in the contemplation. It is the balance of both which we should be striving for. Love is the key to finding this balance."

~Mother Theresa

In honor of Ms Teng :)

Hi viewers! This is something personal so ya u can ignore it if it doesn't concern you :) 
Dear Ms Teng, I am honoring you in my own way (so i hope you still appreciate this) You have been a great inspiration to me, both in history and literature (your poems are really cool). I will really miss you but i will still work hard in history... i won't let you down :) i hope 111 and you can keep in touch either through the meeting words thing or some other way...i won't forget you Ms Teng...thank you sooo much for making my first semester in RGS so fun and inspiring. I will probably never find such a cool and groovy history teacher like you :)


Good luck in your future endeavors and hope that you will come back to teach us one day :)


<3 Anna (and 111)

The story of a blind girl

There was a blind girl who hated herself just because she was blind. She hated everyone, except her loving boyfriend. He was always there for her. She said that if she could only see the world, she would marry her boyfriend.
One day, someone donated a pair of eyes to her and then she could see everything, including her boyfriend. Her boyfriend asked her, “now that you can see the world, will you marry me?”
The girl was shocked when she saw that her boyfriend was blind too, and refused to marry him. Her boyfriend walked away in tears, and later wrote a letter to her saying:
“Just take care of my eyes dear.”

~Treasure your loved ones...as they treasured you <3

The last cab ride

Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living. One time I arrived in the middle of the night for a pick up at a building that was dark except for a single light in a ground floor window.
Under these circumstances, many drivers would just honk once or twice, wait a minute, then drive away. But I had seen too many impoverished people who depended on taxis as their only means of transportation. Unless a situation smelled of danger, I always went to the door. This passenger might be someone who needs my assistance, I reasoned to myself. So I walked to the door and knocked.
“Just a minute,” answered a frail, elderly voice.
I could hear something being dragged across the floor. After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman in her 80′s stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940s movie. By her side was a small nylon suitcase.
The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years. All the furniture was covered with sheets. There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils on the counters. In the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos and glassware.
“Would you carry my bag out to the car?” she said. I took the suitcase to the cab, then returned to assist the woman. She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb. She kept thanking me for my kindness.
“It’s nothing,” I told her. “I just try to treat my passengers the way I would want my mother treated.”
“Oh, you’re such a good boy,” she said. When we got in the cab, she gave me an address, then asked, “Could you drive through downtown?”
“It’s not the shortest way,” I answered quickly.
“Oh, I don’t mind,” she said. “I’m in no hurry. I’m on my way to a hospice.”
I looked in the rear view mirror. Her eyes were glistening.
“I don’t have any family left,” she continued. “The doctor says I don’t have very long.”
I quietly reached over and shut off the meter. “What route would you like me to take?” I asked.
For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the building where she had once worked as an elevator operator. We drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were newlyweds. She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl.
Sometimes she’d ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing.
As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, “I’m tired. Let’s go now.”
We drove in silence to the address she had given me.
It was a low building, like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed under a portico. Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move. They must have been expecting her. I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door. The woman was already seated in a wheelchair.
“How much do I owe you?” she asked, reaching into her purse.
“Nothing,” I said.
“You have to make a living,” she answered.
“There are other passengers.”
Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug. She held onto me tightly.
“You gave an old woman a little moment of joy,” she said. “Thank you.”
I squeezed her hand, then walked into the dim morning light. Behind me, a door shut. It was the sound of the closing of a life.
I didn’t pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly, lost in thought. For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk. What if that woman had gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end his shift? What if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven away? On a quick review, I don’t think that I have done anything more important in my life. We’re conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments. But great moments often catch us unaware—beautifully wrapped in what others may consider a small one.
A true story by Kent Nerburn

The baby without ears

inSha

“Can I see my baby?” the happy new mother asked.
When the bundle was nestled in her arms and she moved the fold of cloth to look upon his tiny face, she gasped. The doctor turned quickly and looked out the tall hospital window. The baby had been born without ears.
Time proved that the baby’s hearing was perfect. It was only his appearance that was marred. When he rushed home from school one day and flung himself into his mother’s arms, she sighed, knowing that his life was to be a succession of heartbreaks. He blurted out the tragedy. “A boy, a big boy … called me a freak.”
He grew up, handsome for his misfortune. A favorite with his fellow students, he might have been class president, but for that. He developed a gift, a talent for literature and music. “But you might mingle with other young people,” his mother reproved him, but felt a kindness in her heart. The boy’s father had a session with the family physician. Could nothing be done? “I believe I could graft on a pair of outer ears, if they could be procured,” the doctor decided.
Whereupon the search began for a person who would make such a sacrifice for a young man. Two years went by. Then, “You are going to the hospital, Son. Mother and I have someone who will donate the ears you need. But it’s a secret,” said the father. The operation was a brilliant success, and a new person emerged. His talents blossomed into genius, and school and college became a series of triumphs.
Later he married and entered the diplomatic service. “But I must know!” He urged his father, “Who gave so much for me? I could never do enough for him.” “I do not believe you could,” said the father, “but the agreement was that you are not to know … not yet.” The years kept their profound secret, but the day did come … one of the darkest days that a son must endure. He stood with his father over his mother’s casket. Slowly, tenderly, the father stretched forth a hand and raised the thick, reddish-brown hair to reveal that the mother had no outer ears. “Mother said she was glad she never let her hair be cut,” he whispered gently, “and nobody ever thought Mother less beautiful, did they?”
Real beauty lies not in the physical appearance, but in the heart. Real treasure lies not in what that can be seen, but what that cannot be seen. Real love lies not in what is done and known, but in what that is done but not known.