In front of my usual window, I look outside. The structure of this dreary building, which they call a nursing home, is not good for me, that is for sure. Its dampness wears me out, the smell of drugs and serums permeates me, and it wears me out a little more each day. Although I am used to my smell, I have to say that I am not used to the way people who approach me grimace, say I smell like rotten wood, and make fun of my age. Maybe because I did not answer them, they must think I did not hear or care about them. Unfortunately, I hear them, I care, and I am sad because I do not have the power to prevent their mockery.
Thankfully, my unchanging place allows me to remember every day with all the beauties the earth has to offer. In front of a window with huge sills, I watch a few stars in the night sky, see the red on the horizon at dusk, meet the sun that begins to swallow all the darkness at dawn and be with it all day long. I follow the clouds in awe, until the evening dawn reveals itself with its purple color and the Shepherd Star appears. And when darkness strikes the stage at show time, it falls to me to contemptuously look down upon the tiny insignia of the mighty stars of distant galaxies reaching us. Even if I do not move during the day, sometimes for weeks, I feel and accept that the deformed sphere I call Earth is constantly spinning beneath me.
I believe there are only two things that can be done when you sit in front of a window. One is to watch the sky dance as I have described, and the other is to watch the guests of the earth rush around without being aware of the beauty above them. My window overlooks the large garden of the nursing home. Or the garden underlooks my big garden window. I don't know which is which. I did not get a chance to talk to either of them. And yet they never even bothered to talk to me. I'm not offended. There's enough to be upset about already.
The faces in the garden change day by day. From sunrise to sunset, those who did not go out in the previous days eagerly flee outside, as if it was their turn for the right to fresh air. I know the daily visitors of this garden. In the back corner, an old woman sits every morning on the benches that have turned into a natural gazebo with tree branches covering it, and a young girl next to her. The old woman's hair is white, but not a shady white like every white-haired person, but white like those of those who suddenly say goodbye to all the color of their life in sorrow. It is stringy, but at the same time it has a smooth appearance, like a white waterfall that has suddenly started flowing in the middle of the sky. It is well maintained, well looked after and bright. The old woman never touches her hair. She does not put a hairpin or a wire in her hair, she does not tie it with anything. Even in windy weather, unlike many elders, she doesn't even need to protect herself. Because her white hair is not blown in the wind, the ends of her hair simply circumambulate her neck with peaceful rhythmic dances.
The young girl next to the old woman has no regrets in this life. It is as if no one has interfered with her, and every single strand of her hair belongs to her. Neither a whiteness, nor a flash of color, nor an effort to bring a color from the past to the light can be seen on the young girl's head. Even if it starts from the top of the head, the hands go down to the very bottom without pausing for even a microsecond. It looks so soft that if it were possible to photograph scents, the best place to conduct this experiment would be the frame of this head. Because it is impossible for someone looking at this young girl's hair to not be able to guess how that hair smells, no matter where she is. When they come side by side with the old woman, the strands of hair are set up as if one is the shadow of the other.
They meet every day, talk for a long time, stare at a photo of another woman between the ages of the two, and finally say goodbye and cry. The next day, they repeat the previous day, remember how they were sad and cry again. I cannot keep track of how long they have been doing this. I believe I do not have a notion of time. For me there is day and night, the day before, today and the day after. Each one is the same. It is like there is only one day for me that I have to live in a row for eternity, in front of this window, that I bear alone.
On the other side of the garden, an old couple is usually together. When you look at their faces, you can catch the glimmer of youth, vitality and life that is still trying to exist somewhere. The man has only a few hairs on his head. However, there is no doubt that he will defend them at the cost of his life. It is certain that he looks at this precious work on his head like a work of art, an antique teapot or an ancestral object. Not many people seem to notice, but the hard work it takes to keep his white velvet hair shiny like this, position it gently on his head, and protect it from the wind and blizzard may take this old man's life away. Because his face is always sullen, his eyes are always old and his shoulders are always low. Maybe it is all because he realized that he could not afford the effort he spent on his beautiful hair. Or maybe the proudest sign of his youth was spilled and destroyed, perhaps that upset him so much.
The woman next to him is always different. Whenever they meet in this garden, someone accompanies the woman. They bring her to the man, introduces them, he says he is pleased with the woman's head, and they start chatting. In the evening, the companion returns, takes the woman, introduces him to the man again, the woman nods, says she is satisfied, walks away, the man is not satisfied in the same way, he remains sad. The next day the whole theater is staged again, I do not understand what is going on. The woman puts her hand in her hair every time they meet, gently hits both sides of her head and collects her round hair. He is sure that the way to the heart of the man in front of him is this hair. She also has a small hairpin on her hair. It is like a throne where all the strands of hair are pledged, at a point at the top of the head that dominates all the hair; this hairpin holds them all in the palm of your hand. It is a gold colored object with a tiny butterfly attached. The man's eye goes to this buckle on every date, causing him to sigh.
I watch this scene over and over again every day. I do not have a record that I keep. I do not know how long it has been going on. The days are like an intertwined spiral for me. Each day a little more into the other day. Every day I come across scenes that I think are the same. I cannot say a word to any of them. I just have an awareness of what's going on, that's all. Still, I am not offended. I also touched that beautiful hair, which I now watch with longing from afar, in my time. I have been as close as a breath to many of them. Sometimes it was their last breath. I have seen a lot of death; I have lost a lot of beauty. Still, I kept something to myself. For years, I twisted and carried a bunch of yellow hair, a lock of red, a little bit of black and a lot of white hair. Each of them had a different memory, the memory of each remained with me. One day, when I descend to the ground, I will take refuge in the lap of the earth and return those memories to their owners.
I am just waiting for my time. In front of the window of a nursing home, quiet, forgotten, worn out and worn. I do not have anyone who knows what I am thinking, understands how I feel, or perceives my gaze. The only thing that the eyes looking at me interpret is that I am a part of the past that will probably be completely mixed with the history very soon. Still, it is nice to be noticed sometimes. Here the door of my room opens again. My favorite time of the day is coming.
“Come on, beauty,” the nurse says, pushing an old woman inside in her wheelchair. The woman smiles and they come up to me together, and she looks out the window. The nurse reaches out her hand towards me and grabs me nicely on one arm and lifts me into the air. I am confused; I cannot make sense of what is going on. I approach the old woman's head.
“Let's take good care of you,” the nurse says to the old woman, and we two old women get together. I understand of what I am and what I am looking for here.
"That's right," I say to myself, "I'm just an old comb."
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125,027 Literary Works • 672,773 Reviews
Hi there! Lim here with a review!
General Comments
On my first read, the last line was a big ‘aha’ moment. I love the twist that the narrator was a comb. All the foreshadowing and details hinting to it make a second read satisfying as well. The focus on people’s hair was def something I noticed and I thought that “rotten wood” was an odd way to describe how a human might smell, but it all makes sense for a comb. The general tone of the story begins kind of grim, but after the comb ponders her situation, she seems to settle on acceptance.
The story seems to be about this acceptance of ageing and death, as well as an appreciation for the beauty of life despite that. I like this idea and quote in particular:
Glows – What I liked
I thought you did a good job conveying the oppressive and entrapping atmosphere of the nursing home in the story. Details like the above show how the inhabitants find the place suffocating generally and seek small pleasures like the garden and having their hair combed out.
I like how these lines portray the character of the comb. “only two things” hints at their being a comb, since they don’t consider doing something like opening the window or maybe even climbing out of it. The comb also sounds very confident, which hints at their age and wisdom.
The rhythm of the prose in general also sounded nice reading it in my head.
Grows – Ideas to consider
I wonder if some of the figurative language might be simplified. I found some of the images difficult to imagine because the figurative language didn’t quite connect to something concrete for me. For example:
Similes usually help make one thing (here the white hair) clear by comparing it to another thing. However, I don’t know what “every white-haired person” looks like or what it means to “say goodbye to all the color of their life”. They’re both a little abstract to me, so it’s hard for me to picture what I’m supposed to be picturing.
Meanwhile, I liked the image “like a white waterfall that has suddenly started flowing in the middle of the sky”. I could imagine it better since “white waterfall” and “middle of the sky” are concrete images.
I found this part a bit confusing, since it uses negative descriptors, where the sentences immediately before it describe the sky in a much more positive manner.
Another thing to consider would be how many pieces of information you want to fit into a single sentence, and what order you want to put them in. For example:
I kind of wonder what this part would be like if it said something like “I looked through my usual window” instead. Is there a particular effect you want to achieve by putting the “window” bit in front and the action behind?
This line is one where I felt there was a lot of descriptive information being packed into one sentence. The order of the information also felt a bit odd, since it goes [location] – [person] – [location] – [description of location] – [person]. I’d expect the two people would be described adjacent to each other if they are supposed to be next to each other, but they’re not.
Overall
This was an enjoyable piece! The main strength I think was the narrator’s voice, and how that was presented through the details they focused on (hair, other ‘inanimate’ things, etc.) and the setting descriptions. My suggestions if you plan on revising this would be to think about a few parts where the figurative language could use some ‘simpler’ or more concrete descriptions, as well as to consider reducing the number of clauses / pieces of information in some of the longer sentences.
Hope this helps – let me know if you’d like more feedback on something specific!
-Lim
Hello mustafayildiz! Incoming review!
I thought something was missing from this. Especially with the slumped shoulders part. I think you could have had a more grounded portion of the explaining why this old man is decaying. One reason why older people have that signature "hunch" is because gravity has been pushing down on them for 60, 70, 80, 90+ years. And without good posture, it will make that more apparent. Something like "Or perhaps gravity had weighted down on his shoulders for too many years and the effect was less than desirable," could work in this context.Your work was so incredibly beautiful. I love the themes of lost time coming from an elderly person. It was so grounded with a little bit of bitterness from the idea that the narrator didn't get to live her life to the fullest. The title also solidifies this fact "Antique" is something old, yet something to be treasured, as older people should be. I love all the musings you gave me to read. With that said, let us get on with the review!
I'll start with some critiques I had. Some of these might be nitpicky because the work was so brilliant on its own.
I thought, too, that the ending was a little bit confusing. I was more so confused about how you wanted the reader to interpret what is the narrator's fate. Because I initially thought she passes away and the nurse is someone ushering her into the afterlife and she's seeing it from a 3rd person perspective. But because of the weird perspective, I thought the nurse was leading a separate woman but also the same one. I was somewhat confused as to why she called herself an old comb at the very end. Some more clarity would elevate the work to be even better. A more wishy-washy ending can devalue the rest of the work.
I also believe you might have focused on those in the park a little bit too much because, in the middle of the reading, I thought I was reading something else when I remembered what I was actually reading. You can still totally keep it, just tie it into how this fits into the narrator's thoughts and feelings a little more.
And another thing that I see a lot in writing now, is that it feels more like a first or second draft. I think you could push your sentences to be even more impactful and maybe consolidate your story in the process. Try to make every sentence have the impact of two.
But enough with the critiques, on to the compliments!
The tone through the whole piece was incredible. And your themes were consistent and beautiful. I like how there was an heir of mystique about death and life. The narrator is in awe of life, but not afraid of what death does. It was a very grounded and nuanced take from an older protagonist.
Speaking of older, I love seeing older protagonists and narrators. It is so much different to the teen or young adult narrators. This is what I imagine a grandmother telling her grandchildren stories to be like because I never got to personally experience that. It is all so calm.
Some parts where you writing shone were:
Each of these has the incredible calmness of the narrator. There isn't any hint of bitterness, but a longing for something more in the last days of the narrator's life. So touching.
But that's all I have for today. I hope you found some of it useful. I'll also use this time as a belated welcome to YWS. I hope whatever critique you found useful serves it purpose, and whatever doesn't, leaves your mind. Keep on writing and I'll see you next time. Anyway, byeeeeeeeeeeeeeee