Sara Gruen

Water for Elephants

Charlotte Weir 

Age is a terrible thief. Just when you're getting the hang of life, it knocks your legs out from under you and stoops your back. It makes you ache and m iec vour head and silenrly spreads cancer throughout your spouse.

But there's nothing to be done about it. All I can do is put in time waiting for the inevitable, observing as the ghosts of my past rattle around my vacuous present. They crash and bang and make themselves at home, mostly because there's no competition. I've stopped fighting them. They're crashing and banging around in there now. Make yourselves at home, boys. Stay awhile. Oh, sorry I see you already have. Damn ghosts.

Why? That's what I want to know. I hate this bizarre policy of protective exclusion, because it effectively writes me off the page. IfI don't know what's going on in their lives, how am I supposed to insert myself in the conversation? I've decided it's not about me at all. It's a protective mechanism for them, a way of buffering themselves against my future death, like when teenagers distance themselves from their parents in preparation for leav- ing home. When Simon turned sixteen and got belligerent, I thought it was just him. By the time Dinah got there, I knew it wasn't her fault--it was programmed into her. Rur desnire howdlerizing content, my family has been entirely faith-

It's impossible to describe how tenderly I suddenly feel toward them--hyenas, camels, and all. Even the polar bear, who sits on his backside chewing his four-inch claws with his four-inch teeth. A love for these animals wells up in me suddenly, a flash flood, and there it is, solid as an obelisk and viscous as water. 

I care for these horses daily. I muck out their stalls, fill their water and feed buckets, and groom them for the show. I check their teeth and comb their manes and feel their legs for heat. I give them treats and pat their necks. They had become as familiar a part of my scenery as Queenie, but after seeing Marlena's act I’ll never view them the same way again. These horses are an extension of Marlena--a part of her that is here, right now, with me. I reach over the srall diide

Afterward, she lies nestled against me, her hair tickling my face. I stroke her lightly, memorizing her body. I want her to melt into me, like butter on toast. I want to absorb her and walk around for the rest of my days with her encased in my skin. I want. I lie motionless, savoring the feeling of her body against mine. I'm afraid to breathe in case I break the spell.

I may be in my nineties, but who says I’m helpless? 

I lift my walker, twist it a couple of inches to the left, and plunk it down again. Its plastic wheels scrape the concrete, and the sound makes me giddy. It's a real noise, a gritty noise, not the squeak or patter of rubber.

And then I laugh, because it's so ridiculous and so gorgeous and it's all I can do to not melt into a ft of giggles. So what if Im ninety-three? So what if I'm ancient and cranky and my body's a wreck? If they're willing to accept me and my guilty conscience, why the hell shouldn't I run away with the circus? Its like Charlie told che cop. For this old man, this is home.

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