The Wimshurst Machine

Abstract

The snow fell from the roof onto the deck with a thud. It made a sound like a pillow being punched, soft but heavy. The old man lay in bed staring at the ceiling. It was 3 am. He slept like a baby, which is to say he woke every 2 hours, although it was not hunger that woke him. Strange, really, how both ends of your life had such similarities. When you were a child you were small, so many things around you were puzzling, and grown-up conversations were incomprehensible, so you ignored them. You were not allowed to touch the grown-ups' things, like irons and television sets—and they wouldn't let you drive no matter how well you thought you could do it. Then you grew up and took your place among the other grown-up people. At the other end of life, you grew down again. You shrank physically. The world was certainly a puzzling place, so different from the one you were used to. You did not understand half of what your grandchildren were talking about, so you ignored them. They wouldn't let you touch their electronic toys because you might mess them up. As for driving—well! You were no longer a grown-up; you were a grown-down. He tried to go back to sleep. He concentrated hard on thinking about nothing. He failed. The other thing about being young was that people were interested in who you were. You were the cute little blond kid who told grandma that she smelled funny. When you grew up, people were no longer interested in who you were, only in what you were. You were …