Awakening

You would have thought that he’d never seen a tree before, the way he fixated on the lush oak before him. It was one of those beautiful early autumn days: bright, still relatively mild. The leaves were only just starting to turn, preparing for the bitterness of winter. Yet Allan felt like he was just waking up, like a spring flower ready to bloom.

He wanted to capture this feeling of the environment around him feeling so vivid. Like going from black and white into glorious technicolour. That didn’t detract from the painful experience of the preceding ten days spent totally alone in his small flat. Sometimes he would affectionately refer to the place as his ‘bachelor pad’, thinking it might conjure an air of mystery.

This allowed him to gloss over the reality of his living situation, which was frankly quite lonely. Its loneliness had been brought into sharp relief during his period of illness, a horrible flu. Fever, aching all over. He remembered in childhood complaining he might have a ‘mild flu’ when feeling a bit ill. His father assured him that if he had flu, he would know about it. He was certainly right about that.

The conveniences of modern life meant he was able to satisfy his practical needs during this period, medicine and food delivered to his door. Endless entertainment available on demand, though his appetite for anything unfamiliar was limited. He found himself re-watching ‘the Office’ from start to finish for the umpteenth time.

And what about social connection? Messages and video calls allowed him to remain engaged with the outside world, including with his parents who were clearly worried about his state.

He still found himself wishing someone close by could take care of him in this time of need. The kindly neighbour who’d said ‘text me if you need anything, whatever the time of day’. Allan knew that couldn’t possibly extend to rubbing his back in the early hours of the morning as he woke from a fever dream, drenched in sweat.

Friends were great and supportive but had their own lives to get on with, he couldn’t be their child. He was his parents’ child, and he questioned why he had chosen to move so far away from them. He reminded himself that he was almost 37 years old and shouldn’t rely on them for care. But wasn’t it normal to pine for parental affection in such times?

Either way, he found himself looking anew at the old tree he barely gave a second thought to as he cycled past it in the mornings. He decided that something needed to change. The fragility of the independent life he had built had been punctured by this period of illness.

He wondered if he should try dating again, though seeking a partner principally for care in tough times didn’t feel like a particularly solid foundation for a relationship. For now, he decided he would get a cat.

Catherine has recently begun her writing journey. She lives in London.