Sipsworth

by Simon Van Booy

Each day was an impersonation of the one before with only a slight shuffle⁠—as though even for death there is a queue.

The front garden had been paved over, but cracks in the cement sometimes bled flowers she could name, as though just below the surface of this world are the ones we remember, still going on.

Everyone she has ever loved or wanted to love is gone, and behind a veil of fear she wishes to be where they are.

None of this has any effect on her. It is no longer Helen’s world to worry about. And in her mind it is the same news over and over again, with the only difference being that people think they’re hearing it for the first time.

The only real proof of her advanced age are a chronic, persistent feeling of defeat, aching limbs, and the power of invisibility to anyone between the ages of ten and fifty.

“The only consolation of being the last to go,” she admits, “is knowing the people you loved the most won’t suffer the way you do in their absence.”

Helen notices her hand trembling⁠—not because she’s holding a live mouse, but because it’s the first time she’s been touched by another living thing for over twenty years.

When Helen wakes from her nap, Sipsworth is still sleeping. She decides to put on the telly at a low volume. Children’s programmes will be playing, and Helen wonders if the sound of cartoons and laughter might be comforting, as animals are really just children that never grow up.

“You know what your gift to the world is, Sipsworth?” Helen asks him. “It’s that you bring out the best in people.”