1939

November 1939

William is sitting by the window. He is looking out over the frozen grounds outside. He notices a row of small saplings that are struggling to stay standing against the heavy hoarfrost that adorns their delicate branches. His eyes trace the long sloping lawn that leads down towards the edge of a thick woods. The branches of oak and elms reach like spidery arms from the darkness of the woods. Little mementos of his life sit on a solid oak table that is screwed into the wall of his room: an official seal, a copy of his law degree, and a picture of his youngest child -- one of the few things he holds dear. A cold wind whistles through the thin window pane as the trees in the distance bend towards the forest floor, and the clean air, air so dry it cuts through his nostrils, washes away the bleach and starch of his room. William has been here over a year; a recovering writer, sent to a sanitorium in northern Ontario.    

He was put away when he failed to defeat his need to write under the influence of hooch. He can’t remember why he wrote in the first place. The demons must have been exorcised by shock therapy and isolation. He is without motivation or concern. He is merely a frame of a man, sitting in a hard wooden chair, staring out the window, trying his hardest to remember what remembering felt like. His legs, even hidden by his grey slacks, are bony and underfed, and hang loosely down to the floor. His feet rest in large slippers and wool socks that cover his calves. His temples are devoid of fat and flesh, just the etching of veins and bone beneath his skin. His face is gaunt,and his eyes are tired and lifeless, as he stares into the woods, trying to remember why he was trying to remember what remembering felt like.