He couldn’t remember the day that his whole world became soft. Then again, memory was proving to be a funny old thing lately anyway. He was quite sure that once upon a time the things around him were hard. His life was made up of hard things. No nonsense things. Screws, hammers, saws. A workbench. Workboots. The metallic wafts of iron filings in his workshop. If smells could be hard, that was a hard smell. Like diesel. Like petrol. Arms, hands, legs, body hard and working in unison with the tools. A machine that makes, that produces and that mends. Fixes.
The ache in his back creeps back now and he gently rearranges his legs under the muted greens of the crocheted rug and it appears like a cat or a small dog wriggling under there. Rex. Daisy. That pesky cat that was black and left her hair everywhere. His feet suddenly popped out in view from under the rug so they must be his own legs moving then. The fuzzy grey slippers were now side by side at attention. It was all he wore now. He groaned after the effort and still not satisfied leant forward slightly. That pillow in the small of his back still wasn’t in quite the right spot. Again. Slowly, tentatively, he reached his withered arm around behind him to make the adjustment required.
He knew it was that stupid pink one, even without seeing it. Gina must have put it there for him before she brushed his forehead with a rushed goodbye kiss. It sat for years and years on Alice’s side of the bed and now it was his, it seemed. He got all the soft things when she went. Blankets, rugs, doonas, dressing gowns, coats, scarves, dresses. Women and their soft stuff. Did he want them? Three years later, he still wasn’t sure. Each of them held memories in their very fibres, sparking off thoughts left dormant for decades. Like a stranded man on a deserted island. Alone with his soft things and his memories. Did they conjur her up for him? Make her almost real and present or were they tormenting and teasing only? He glanced around him looking for the smooth plastic of the remote control in the side of the recliner. Ah there it was. Click. Sigh. Sweet relief.