You want a quiet, peaceful life in retirement. But you may not get what you want.

 

Sometimes what you’ve done earlier in life can come back to haunt you, as is the case  in . . .

 

 

Her Name Was Ella

 

     Living on Liberty Lane could be a nightmare. Neighbors knew each other, but didn’t seem to get along. People screaming and screeching car brakes were a way of life from which no one could escape. In this neighborhood of irritable souls, it was hard to be accepted.       

     Rhonda stood staring out her living room window in her senior community, dreaming of a future that was peaceful and quiet. She murmured, “I deserve better than this. I’m a good person. This isn’t what I wanted.”

     A prisoner in a world without bars. Fearful of what the future might hold. Afraid of taking a chance. Could her sentence be reduced?

     Would she live in fear the rest of her life? But, in reality, she didn’t have a life. How can I stand up to the unfriendliness on my street, she thought. “I’ve got to do it,” she moaned.

     Then there was a knock on the door—soft and gentile. Rhonda moved with caution into the hallway. She reached for the doorknob, but before touching it, she pulled her hand away. The fear she felt was overwhelming.

     Another knock—softer and gentler than the first—caused her to believe she could do this. She held the knob in her hand and turned it. She took two steps back, as she pulled the door open.

     Sitting on the stoop was a package, decorated in bright yellow paper and red and blue ribbons. Do I dare touch it, she thought.

     In the ten years she’d lived on Liberty Lane, she’d never received a gift like this. But was it a gift? Or could it be something that would destroy her life in an unspeakable way? And did she dare try to find out?

     Quivering, she moved toward the package and began to reach down to pick it up. And then  . . .

     “Don’t touch it!” a mysterious voice from out of nowhere shouted.

     Rhonda jumped back and looked around, but saw nobody. Believing this was all in her head, she decided to give it another try. But, as she did . . .

     “No, you can’t do it! You’ll be sorry if you do,” the voice echoed in her head.

     “What did I do to deserve this? I’m sixty-five years old and I keep to myself. I try not to hurt other people,” she muttered.

     “But maybe you have,” the voice whispered.

     “How can that be? Before I retired to this godforsaken street, I was a respected teacher, poet, and author. And then I came here. I’m almost invisible on this block.”

     “Yes, almost,” the voice stated emphatically.

     “What do you mean by that?”

     No answer. Her world became silent. The voice disappeared. Rhonda stood in dismay. And then shook in agony, as she heard the screeching of car brakes and the screaming of a woman, “You bastard. Didn’t you see the stop sign? You almost killed me.”

     Rhonda slammed the door, leaving the gift package sitting in the sun, but with a shadow cast upon it. She feared what might come next and didn’t know if she could handle it.

     Confused and afraid, she ambled into the living room and collapsed on the couch. She picked up her legs, now feeling like dead weights, and placed them on the ottoman. Still shaking, she tried to get comfortable. But leaving the package on the front porch bothered her. I should get it, she thought.

     As she began to get up from the couch, the phone rang. She reached over and picked it up off the end table. “Hello,” she said.

     A familiar voice, the one playing games with her head, stated, “Rhonda, you must face your demons.”

     “Face my what?” Rhonda asked, not knowing where the conversation was headed.

     “The past that is upsetting the present,” the voice replied.

     “I don’t have a clue what you mean.”

     “Did you do something wrong that might have upset these eighty-year-old neighbors of yours?”

     “Huh, why would you ask such a question?”

     “Because it is one you must answer,” the voice stated emphatically.

     “Who are you anyway, and why do you care?” Rhonda queried.

     “I am your voice of reason and you need to listen to me.”

     “I’ve had it with you. I’m going to get the package and find out what this is all about.”

     Rhonda pushed the off button on the phone, rolled off the couch, and headed to the front door. Opening it, she peered at the nicely wrapped box and wondered how finding out what was inside might change her life.

     It seemed like hours passed, as she tried to muster up the courage to approach the unknown. Another car screeched down the street and swerved toward her. She glared at it. The man behind the wheel stuck his head out the window and shouted, “What are you looking at, lady? Just mind your own business.”

     She wanted to yell back at him and say, “This is my house and I can look at whatever I want to,” but she kept her cool and her mouth shut. He drove on without further altercation.

     With her eyes now focused on the package, she bent down and picked it up. She felt something move ever so slightly, but it didn’t alarm her.

     “Are you ready for this?” the voice asked.

     “You’re back?”

     “No. I never left. Sit down before you do this,”

     For some reason, she listened. Carrying the box, she closed the door and went into the kitchen. She placed it on the table and sat down. Carefully, she untied the ribbons and removed the wrapping paper. Then, almost in slow motion, she took the top off the box.

     “Remember, I’m here for you,” the voice stated in a supportive manner.

     Why this calmed her down, she didn’t understand. Removing the packaging, what appeared was a book—a book she’d written when she was forty-five years old. The title jumped out at her, “Old Folks—People I’d Never Want to Be,” written by Ella James, her pseudonym.

 

Postscript: Old Folks—People I’d Never Want to Be by Ella James

 

The old folks in the audience clap in praise.
The amazing show leaves them in a daze.

When their enjoyment at last abates,
They rush to the bathroom as if on roller skates.

They love the actors up on the stage floor,
But appreciate getting to the toilet in time even more.

Although I never want to die, old is not what I want to be.

How these old folks navigate through life is a mystery to me.

 

 

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