Time is Running Out in The Capsule

The room blurred as Mary sat on the couch and surveyed the life she had created. Faded oil paintings, tarnished brass light fixtures, a table and chairs set intended for a family, picture frames filled with nieces and nephews and all the rescue dogs that had called this place home.

The only things that changed over the years were the shag carpet, painted walls, texture of her skin and the chair he once sat in. Her hand shook as she held up the old photo from a pile that sat on the table. Each shot reflected a time capsule she was still living in.

The years passed, and she had left it all the same — her job, style, dishes, hairdo. Pinning her curlers to her head each night. Nevada had been the furthest adventure from home, and even that was with her parents, who no longer lived around the corner in the house she grew up in.

Her Sundays at church faded as well; no more children clinging to the hem of her dress, waiting for rewards for rattling off verses. A mishap of drive instead of reverse shook her into parking her car for good. There would be no more lunches with friends, shopping trips or bowling nights. Trips to the toy store with family long grown.

Slowly the messages on the answering machine became few. The black and white images of friends falling away in the paper clipped and piled on the table grew. She placed a small checkmark next to their photo in her directory. The list of Christmas cards narrowed.

She rarely slept in her bed, choosing to wake and rise on the couch, where she spent most of her time. The lives of reality beaming from her television were her closest companions. No need to impress them with clothes, so she only changed them on Monday before her welfare check.

A tap on the door sent the dog into a frenzy every Tuesday, when a family member would stop by to toss out uneaten food from her fridge before running to the store and restocking. The menu was always the same: two eggs for breakfast, the center of a chicken pot pie for lunch, a turkey sandwich on wheat with chips and an apple for dinner. The doctor allowed two cookies a day, which she followed with precision.

Exercise was a quick stroll to the mailbox in front of her house. The grass and trees dropped off one by one with the drought and her neglect. Flowers no longer bloomed under the front window. The field that once held tall grasses across the street was now paved with apartments. Mary paused and stared at a man yelling on the sidewalk across the way.

He waved his hands in the air and screamed at the cars passing by. No one stopped or yelled back. No one paused to ask the man why he was so upset, or to ask him what he wanted. Their eyes met. She pressed the mail in her hands to her chest and squeezed. He lifted his hand and waved. With a little hesitation, she allowed her hand to unclench and wave back.

She latched the lock on the door and stood in the entryway. Turning back to the door, she softly touched the curtain and pulled it slowly to the side peeking out. The man was gone. A sigh escaped her chest. She tossed the mail on the coffee table and sat on the couch.

“I’m ready.” She declared. Her dog came to her lap and licked her face. “You’ll be okay.” She rubbed his head. Mary stared deep into his eyes. “You’ll be okay.” She picked up the picture of her parents from the side table and held it in her shaking hands. She stared at her ignored pillbox and shoved a third cookie in her mouth.