At my age, there’s half a chance… maybe half a hope… I’ll have an android to ease the weight of later years, help me stay in my own home.
Perhaps it’ll arrive fully assembled. Neither male nor female, its skin will be smooth as mine decades ago. I’ll train it to recognize my face and voice, understand the meaning of an arched eyebrow and intonations. We’ll take turns squeezing each other’s hands so it learns to modulate it’s strength. I’ll teach it to do the dishes. If it puts the cups where the plates belong, I’ll correct it politely.
My android will carry what becomes too heavy — bulging trash bags, a basket with legs and sleeves hanging over the sides. It will manage my confusion of meds, drink in my sandlot stories. When I lament never making it to Madrid, it’ll order out tapas. If I refer to my android as a robot, it’ll frown and nod at the autovac docked in the corner.
My dog, if I have one, will probably bark and growl, but my android will win her over with a scratch behind her ear. Give her time to sniff around, I’ll say when they leave for walks.
Maybe I’ll have resorted to jigsaw puzzles, and the two of us will tackle a new one. I’ll step away to clean my eyeglasses and, when I return, the Smokies will be ablaze with fuchsia. I’ll explain that sometimes slower is better.
My android might ask about the photo of a woman with a red bicycle. I’ll explain it’s my wife years ago when we rode in Acadia. We got lost but didn’t care because we loved the scent of pine and sea views… and we were, back then, healthy. When I’m unable to continue, my android will squeeze my hand with just the right amount of pressure.
My android will have a sense of humor, crack jokes about quantum mechanics, fractals, strings… We’ll watch old Abbott and Costello movies.
When I recount the dream of my consciousness flowering in the forever body of my android, it’ll speak of the decades beyond my reach. I’ll be silent a few moments then, to lighten the mood, ask Who’s on first? My android will reply Schrödinger’s cat… or not, and we’ll have a good laugh.
I’ll recite some of my favorite poems. If I say The Man Against The Sky was written by Robinson Jeffries, my android will correct me gently and won’t mention my failing memory.
Every morning my android will help me from bed and ask Did you rest well? What shall we do today?
I’ll reply So so. Not much.
Every night it will fluff my pillow and, when I have to get up in the middle of darkness, soft beams from its eyes will light my way.
My android will heighten its sensors while I sleep and check out strange noises. It’ll answer my phone and tell scammers where to go. It’ll know CPR and the Heimlich. My android will be my emergency call button.
Time, alas, will be fleet and cruel. Too soon the day will come when I struggle with even a glass of water. Holding a sip to my lips, my android will try to force a smile and say Who’s on— then, after a sound I’ve never heard before, continue What happens when you die? I’ll manage a whisper Schrödinger’s cat.
That night, my android … my companion… my friend … will carry me outside, and we’ll sit under countless stars. When I feel a chill, a heated arm will envelop my shoulders, I’ll say I never imagined this could be possible. I will have forgotten I wrote this.
David Henson and his wife have lived in Brussels and Hong Kong and now reside in Illinois. His work has been nominated for four Pushcart Prizes, Best of the Net and two Best Small Fictions and has appeared in various journals including Idle Ink, Maudlin House, Gastropoda, Literally Stories, Pithead Chapel, Gone Lawn, and Moonpark Review. His website is writings217.wordpress.com. His Twitter is @annalou8.
Idle Ink 