These Damn Buttons

It seems to me that eighty will be one of those ages after which one feels completely transformed. Seventy-nine. Eighty. So much distance between those numbers.

            Well, not really, I suppose. Two hours and four minutes worth of distance to be exact.

            I’ll never fit. Suzanne must be joking. Quite a good joke, if one thinks it through. Turning eighty in a child’s bed. You’d be in fits, Ron.

            These damn buttons; too small for my fingers. I can’t – the tiny slit... my hands just don’t work the way they used to. I can’t even look at them without cringing, so creased and discoloured like a slept-in sheet.

            It’s getting to be a lot of effort, this buttoning. I walked around all day today with my cardigan buttoned up wrong. I simply couldn’t find the strength to start all over again. I suppose Suzanne thinks I’m mad for it. She can be so patronizing sometimes, Ron. She practically forced me to stay the night. Why she couldn’t simply pick me up in the morning I have no idea. She keeps talking to me in such a loud, slow voice. My hearing is perfectly fine, thank you very much. It was yours that went to the dogs, wasn’t it Ron?

            There, one done. I swear these are smaller than usual buttons, and they barely fit. The fabric is frayed around the slits. Tiny little white threads like veins or hairs. I can’t seem to push them away. They keep attaching themselves to the peeling flesh around my thumb.

            Suzanne did my hair today for the party. I can’t be dealing with any of it. I’m dreading it, Ron, if I’m honest with you. Michael’s coming, and I know how much you disliked him. Never thought he was good enough for our Suzanne, did you? Well he’s always round at ours now. What on earth will I have to say to Michael?

            She’s put me in rollers – plastic and spiky, pulling on my scalp. Honestly if you could see me, Ron, you’d cry with laughter. What a bloody picture. And then she sprayed something on their, and now my hair feels so wiry and stiff. Remember that lavender shampoo you got me last year. Oh, it was lovely, and now – Suzanne’s too old for all this malarkey, never mind me. Honestly, sometimes you’d think I was the child.

            I can’t sleep in this. My feet will go over the edge. The little’un’s fairy lights are going to keep me awake, and I can’t be bending down to find the plug. I’ll have to put up with the pink glow – it’s making me feel quite sick. You know I never could sleep with the light on.

            And it’s too quiet. Isn’t that strange, Ron? It’s too quiet to sleep.

            I suppose it’s because you’re not snoring.

            Done. Buttoned up to the top. I’ll leave the last one, do you remember when I buttoned myself right up to the neck? You told me I looked like a village priest, cheeky bugger.  My fingers are stained with the little imprints of these damn buttons.

            Do you remember that note you left me, Ron? Only one you ever left me, may I remind you. It must be, I don’t know, fifteen years old now. I’ve still got it. It’s right here, under the pillow. I’m never without it. You didn’t say much: remember to walk the dog, Suzanne’s calling round later, what’s for tea. But you said, ‘P.S. Working an early tonight. I’ll be waiting for you.’

            Oh Ron, I wish you were.