Jonathan McKeown

Eschatology

At first I don’t realise what the problem is, why he’s getting so worked up about it.

“But I don’t want to see that bloke again. He’s an idiot; he just asks me a lot of stupid questions.”

“Dad, if you want to get your driver’s licence renewed you’re going to have to get your GP to fill out this form; and your GP’s referred you to the geriatrician because he thinks you might be showing signs of Alzheimer’s dementia.”

“But there’s nothing wrong with me. Bobby Hood’s eighty-four. He’s two years older than me and they haven’t made him fill out one of these.”

“Yes, but Bobby doesn’t have dementia.”

“What do you mean? I know I forget some things but that doesn’t affect my driving.”

“Not necessarily, but it might. If you forget where you’re going it could distract you from the road and – ”

“But I know exactly where I’m – ” He breaks off. He doesn’t know which way to turn.

There’s desperation in his eyes, in his voice. Like a cornered beast he senses he’s being herded onto a truck; and he knows more or less exactly where that truck is headed.

tears in the web
a moth enters
its second cocoon