Tuesday, November 29, 2016

Sober-Part 2- They Reply

You don’t want me anymore?
You sniveling little wimp!
I own you
Don’t you see?

How many Day One’s
Have there been?
How many more
Will you declare?
How many times did you fall?
…Fail?

You always return
Because…
I own you
Can’t you see?

Don’t look away
I will be here for you
I will ease the pain
I will soothe the sorrows

You don’t want me anymore?
Quiet
Listen to your heart
A pulse of anticipation
You need me
Now you see

Come closer
Remember my bitter-sweet taste
Hold me in your hand
Lift me to your lips
Taste me
I will take you where you need to be
Forever with me

I own you

Sober

This is hard to say…
I don’t want you anymore
Yet, I tremble at the thought
You have been here
It seems forever
You kept every promise
You satisfied every need
I don’t want you anymore
When my world crumbled
You took hold of my hand
When I held my breath
Demanding to die
You whispered lies of hope
We danced dreams together
I don’t want you anymore
I close my eyes
And suck your bitter-sweet essence
Slowly you reduce me
You take me away
I don’t want you anymore
Tomorrow will break
And you will be gone
A fresh beginning
A Day One
I don’t want you anymore

Sunday, November 27, 2016

The Tree Angel

“Why is he so sad?”
“It is Christmas Eve and his home is empty.” The old elfin replied.

The little one reached his small hand into the silver music box, his tiny fingers caressing the enchanted mirror set into the polished lid. The Christmas melodies had gone mute.

“No one is coming?” The smallest elf asked.
“Oh, they will be there tomorrow. But tonight, he is alone. That is why he is sad. For thirty years, each Christmas Eve, children have sat in a circle around the tree. There they would wait…”
“It is a beautiful tree!” The wee one offered.
“Yes, it is. But he has no one to finish it.”

The little elf leaned in closer, carefully inspecting the old man’s home.
 “Where are they?” He wondered aloud.
“His children? They have all grown up. The youngest just set out to start her own family. Some have moved far away, others not so far. But now, they have their own children, their own families, and their own traditions.”
The tiny elf looked up, “I don’t understand. What is grown up?”

Saint Nick smiled, “People aren’t like you and me. They change. In the beginning, they are quite tiny. Smaller than you.” He playfully patted the other on top of his head. “And when they are still little, filled with hope and laughter...they believe! But the day will come when they are no longer little and sadly, they no longer believe." He paused, looking into the music box, "All of his children have grown up.”
“They don’t believe?” The small one asked.
The old elf did not reply.

“What are transitions?” He asked.
“Traditions.” He corrected. “Can you still see the tree?”
“Uh-huh.”
“It is wonderful, but it is not finished. The top of tree is bare. Can you see the box he is holding?”
The elf nudged the silver music box with the palm of his hand. The image of the unfinished Christmas tree faded; quickly replaced by a new one; an old man, sitting in a deep, worn-out chair. He looked so glum. On his lap was a brown box, its edges no longer sharp, and a small hollow in one end.
“What’s in the box?” He asked.

Nicholas picked up the tiny elf and sat him on his knee. As the old elf spoke,the silver music box chimed a Christmas melody. The mystical mirror changed again; this time a home, crowded with laughing children filled the frame. The aroma of sugar cookies floated on the air.

“An angel. A beautiful angel. She wears a long gown, white as Christmas snow. Her wings are also white, trimmed in wool so soft the clouds would be envious. The top of the tree has belonged to her every Christmas for thirty years. Each year, the man in the chair, he is the father, would gather his children in a circle and tell them the story of the first Christmas. And when he was finished, he would slowly stroll around the circle, holding the box in his big hands, singing “Who will it be? Who will it be this year?” Then he suddenly stops, touching the nearest child on their shoulder. And then gently, he would place the beautiful angel in their tiny hands. Then he would lift them up high! High above the top of the great tree. From below, he would watch as the lucky child carefully placed the angel. All the other children would cry out in glee.”

The old elfin paused, remembering Christmas’ past.
“It was their tradition.” He added.

“And now he has no one to help him?” The little elf cried.
“It was never about helping. He could have placed the angel with no care. It was about family. It was about sharing. It was about being together. About love. It was…tradition.”
The little elf reached out, first smoothing the great white beard of the old elf, and then wiping away his tears.

Closing the music box, the red clad elf with the long white beard, stood up, "I have much to do," he said, "after all, it is Christmas Eve."

The tiniest elf sat alone, the silver box held in his lap. Visions of lonely rooms and trees without angels danced before him.
 “ I hope I never grow up.” He followed Saint Nick into the night.

Thursday, November 24, 2016

The Un-Wish Bone

Delicious Thanksgiving aromas still filled the home. The Christmas tree had been adorned with a handful of shiny metallic balls; a string of lights, still unraveled, waited patiently for someone to wrap their length around her waist. Football was on the television but their father had turned down the sound. They knew that was not a good sign.

The twins stood next to the dining table, heads bowed; all of their effort being consumed to avoid meeting the fox-like stare of their father. The once beautiful crystal decanter lay shattered on the tile floor; a light bouquet of very expensive brandy mixed with the Thanksgiving aromas. On the grand table, was a small white plate, the edges trimmed in Christmas green and gold. In the center of the plate, a wishbone, all that remained of the fifteen-pound turkey.

“I know I heard your mother ask you both to stop running. Now if I heard her, certainly you also heard her.” He paused, longer than required; a dramatic effect, or so he believed. “You did hear her, correct?”

“Yes sir.” The twins responded in perfect sync.
“I thought so. Now, why didn’t you listen?” Another pause, this one shorter. “That decanter belonged to your grandmother; it is very special to your mother.”
“Mom said I could have the wishbone this year. But she,” he turned to look at his sister, offering his best nine-year old, “you’re in big trouble” look, “tried to get it before I could. And it doesn’t belong to her!”

The girl stood silently, still reading the tile floor.

Their father picked up the v-shaped bone from the plate. Holding it up to the light he appeared to study it very carefully. His smile hidden from his children by the exaggerated tilt of his head.

“Wishes granted.” He said. “Wishes. More than one. Did you know that?” He asked.
In perfect harmony, a whispered “No, sir.”
“So, you each take a side, make a wish, and pull. You will also need to apologize to your mother. Is that understood?”

Without waiting for his children to answer, he returned to the living area. A moment later the sounds of the football game could be heard once again.

Patrick glared at his sister. Patricia smiled at her brother. Words, thankfully were not exchanged. Tiny hands, one of his, the other hers, reached for the wishbone.
Patricia, or Trish her preferred nickname, closed her eyes, “I wish, I wish for a Barbie playhouse, filled with all the finest furniture and lights that really work”

Patrick, he did not like nicknames, closed one eye, sneaking a peak at his sniveling sister before closing the other, “I wish, I wish…she was never born!”

“Patrick! Patrick, what are you doing? Have you fallen asleep standing up?” Gisela’s familiar accent entered the room, followed by the sounds of her heavy footsteps tapping across ceramic tile.

The boy opened his eyes. The plump German housekeeper stood next to him, the aroma of apple pie floated up from her flour covered apron. The sound of seventy-thousand fans cheering for their football team was coming from the family room. A mirror hung in the passageway, reflected the tall Noble Fir, decorated from stem to stern, thousands of tiny lights dancing to a song only heard by them. An angel resting, as she has done every year, on the very top. On the grand table, a crystal decanter filled to the slender neck with an expensive brandy. A small white plate with green and gold trimmings, held an unbroken wishbone; the only companion to the crystal decanter.

Patrick looked around the room, confused. “Where is Trish?” He asked.

Wer?” Gisela asked.

“Patricia! My sister! Where is she?”

The little German woman laughed, “The baby is not due to arrive until spring. Your hopes for a baby brother? Where have those gone?’ She laughed again.

 I wish she was never…

Patrick bounded up the staircase with the speed and agility reserved for nine-year old boys. Running down the long hallway, he could see the closed door to Trish’s room. He placed his ear upon the door and listened. Nothing. He tapped lightly. Nothing. He opened the door—

Patricia’s room was gone. Her princess white canopy bed had been replaced by a white crib, a baby’s crib. A matching changing table sat across from the crib; Patrick did not know what this strange looking table was for. A mobile, with colorful, dancing unicorns, suspended from the ceiling, was the only other occupant of his twin sister’s room.
Where are her things? Her toys?

Patrick ran back down the hallway. He stopped suddenly, his shoes screeching loudly in protest. The portrait that hung on the wall was different. The painting was from last Christmas; the family had stood together in front of the large fireplace as the artist worked her magic across the canvass. His father, his mother, stood in the back, smiles on their faces. In front of them stood…Patrick.

I wish she was never…

Gisela was sitting at the head of the grand table. A cup of hot coffee had joined the decanter and small white plate.
He looked at the little woman, “Gisela, I did something bad.” A tear escaped.

“I know, mein schatz.

He sat down, “How?”

“I heard your wish.” She said. “I was afraid you may be wishing me away.”

“I would never do that.” Patrick replied, a second tear falling away.

“But this Trish? You wished her away?”

“Yes.” He whispered.

“She was your sister?”

“My twin sister.” He answered the woman. “What am I going to do?”

Gisela put one stubby finger on the edge of the white plate, pushing it gently across the polished table. Patrick looked at the wishbone. He did not want to touch it. He would never touch another wishbone!

“Do not fret.” She said as if reading his young mind. “A wishbone cannot undo a wish. A wish is forever. Do you know where wishes granted go?” Gisela pushed the small plate a little closer to the edge of the grand table.

“No.” Patrick replied.

“Nor do I. No one knows. You see, that is why wishes are forever. They are in a place that no one can penetrate. Nothing can bring them harm. You should have been more careful with your wish.”

The sound of a cheering crowd came from the family room. Patrick heard his father release a moan; the other team must have scored.

“What will I tell my parents?” He asked Gisela.

“There is no need to tell them anything. They never knew of your sister. You wished her away—before she was ever born.”

He had lost command over his tears, they streamed down his face, landing on the small white plate that now sat in front of him. “What am I going to do?” He asked again.

“My Opa. My grandfather, he once told me of a wayward wish he had made as a child. His wish brought him much sadness…like yours. But he knew what to do.” She waited.

Sitting up straight, “What did he do?”

“Does it matter to you, Patrick. Your wish was granted. Your sister is no more.”

“But I want her back! Please tell me what he did.”

Frau Gisela picked up the small wishbone, holding the bottom of the V between her thumb and index finger. Patrick had never noticed how small her hands were.
“My Opa knew the secret.”

“Secret?” the boy asked.

“Ja, the secret on the Un-wish Bone.” She whispered the last words carefully.

Patrick Goode looked at the woman he had known all his life; all nine years. Was she telling him the truth? Or was she making up another tale? When he and Trish (not Trish!) were small, Gisela would tell magical tales each night before their tiny eyes closed.
He decided a challenge was in order, “Did he tell you this secret?”
She nodded.

“Please tell me.” He asked her with tremor.

She placed the wishbone against her heart. “You must hold it like this.” With her other hand, she pointed to the position of the wishing bone. “The true feelings of your heart will fill the wishbone’s V. Leaving it close to your heart, you must close your eyes. Then gently pull, but do not break the bone, the true feelings would escape." She warned. " And then count to three, eins, zwei, drei. And then make your un-wish.”
Patrick looked at her round face, looking for signs of truth

Was sind die wahren Gefühle des Herzens?”
“What?” he asked.
“What are the true feelings of your heart, Patrick?”

He peered into the family room. He saw the Christmas tree standing in the mirror’s image. He heard his mother and father talking, saying something about the holidays. The sounds of the football game had been replaced by Christmas music.

“I want her back.I want my sister back.” He said.

Gisela placed the wishbone into his waiting hands. Patrick slowly pressed the bone against his chest, looking to the little German woman for her approval. She nodded and smiled.

Patrick closed his eyes.
“Do I count to three aloud?” He asked, eyes popping open.
A warm smile, a gentle nod.

Closing his eyes again, “One…two…three.”

Patrick Goode opened his eyes. 

Saturday, November 12, 2016

White Out

I am so cold.
I think my toes may be frozen. I lost one of my shoes. I can’t find it. I will probably lose my toes. That’s what they do you know, you get frostbite, fingers or toes, they just chop them off like it’s no big deal.  I guess it won’t matter if I am dead; chop away Doc, I won’t be needing them.

I should have stayed with the car, but I could smell gasoline. I thought it would catch on fire, maybe blow up like in the movies. That would have lit up the whole damn sky. Somebody would have seen it. Somebody would have come.

Fire would be good now, I’m freezing. All I could think to do was to crawl away from the car. It was upside down, laying on its back, tires spinning in the cold night air. I could smell the gas, so I crawled away. I crawled away…all alone.  I tried to stand up, but I couldn’t. I was dizzy from a blow to my head, it was bleeding, and the blood was running down my face, getting in my eyes and my mouth. It tasted terrible. I don’t know what hit my head, but it must have been hard or sharp because the bleeding wouldn’t stop. When it finally did, I think it's because it's so cold, too cold to bleed. I don’t know if that happens, I suppose it could; everything else is frozen or slowing down. I tried to feel my pulse, you know, in case my heart is slowing down. My gloves prevent me from finding my pulse. Thank God I have my gloves—I can’t lose my toes and fingers. I am cold and a little scared now. I don’t even have to piss, and it’s been two, maybe three days; I know this can’t be good. My beards frozen too, I can feel the ice on it, it feels kinda cool.

The gasoline, I could almost taste it too. I tried to run away but I just fell on the frozen ground. I crawled…I crawled through the snow, I kept crawling until I couldn’t smell the gas anymore. I crawled on my belly and then on my elbows and knees; like a baby crawling after a ball.

I threw the ball; I remember that now. We were in a big room, a warm room. There was a fire in the room, in the fireplace…that was nice. And there was a tree, a Christmas tree lit up by hundreds of tiny flashing lights, red, green and blue, blinking off and on, over and over. I need to see flashing lights now, not on a tree but on rescue car. But I don’t think anyone is coming. The ball was spongy, the size and color of a Red Delicious apple. I threw the ball over the baby’s cute little head so he would crawl after it. He made me laugh. I can’t remember if the baby was mine. That made me cry.

It is so cold. If I could get back to the car, then maybe I could get warm. It has been snowing since the accident; two, maybe three days. I don’t know for sure, the nights are so long this time of the year. I think I saw the sunrise twice and I may have slept through another. It must be nighttime now because it is so cold. The tall pines cover most of the sky, their branches heavy with fresh snow. No blinking lights on these trees. The snow covers everything. I can’t be sure of which way to go. I can no longer see my tracks in the snow.

The headlights were on; even as the car lay upside down with the tires spinning, the lights stayed on. If I could see the lights then I can find the car. And then I could turn on the emergency blinkers and someone would see them from the road. They would send for help. They would pull me out of this frozen ravine and give me a blanket and some coffee, maybe some dry clothes. They would ask me what happened, and how I survived out here, alone, in the cold. I must get to the car; I must turn on the flashers. Then I will be warm, everything will be good. I must, I must. I must. I hope.

Were you alone?

I can’t stand up. The pain in my foot is too much. The frostbite hasn’t finished devouring my flesh; there would be no feeling, no pain, if it had already finished its happy meal.

I don’t think I was alone.

But there is pain, excruciating, knock you on your ass pain. It doesn’t matter anyway. It has been three (or two) days; the car’s battery dead. The emergency lights won’t work. The 2014 Ford Mustang, bought and almost paid for, red as the baby’s toy ball,  is dead.

I will be next. I am so cold.

You left them there!

I rolled over onto my belly. I think it must be a little smaller now. Maybe when I get back I will write a new diet book- How to lose belly fat while freezing to death. I laugh. The night inhales the sound; all is quiet again. I push forward using only my left foot; the pain in my other is too great. Elbows pressed against the frozen soil, I pull myself in the direction I pray is true.

Two inches. That’s all. I moved two damn inches! How far from the car had I ran before passing out? It could not have been that far—I was bleeding and afraid—mix those with the left over effects of a couple of scotch and sodas…

It can’t be that far away. But two inches? Seriously? This will take forever. I can’t make it unless I stand and try to hobble to the car. But I need to rest first. My frozen breath fills the air with a glistening fog. I am breathing so hard. Two friggin inches and I am winded! Too many burgers, too many cigars, too much scotch. Let me just catch my breath and then I will stand up. I will...I will work through the pain. That's what I will do. I will work through the pain.
I need to get to the car or I am going to die.
The car can’t be too far away. I remember hearing…

Crying. The baby was crying. You left them there!

Oh, my God! My family. The baby, my wife. They were in the car with me. We were coming back from her company Christmas party; we had just picked up the baby from the sitter’s. She said the baby could stay the night; don’t worry about him, she said. Have a good time.  We did. I only had two drinks. Maybe three. But he's too young to stay the night. My wife said she would drive, but I wouldn’t let her—she doesn’t see good at night. I could drive, I only had like four drinks, that’s nothing.

You left them in the car!

There was something in the road. I don’t know, something in the road. There was too much white. I couldn’t see, blinding white light. Snow falling. White everywhere. The wipers couldn’t keep up with the fall. She told me to slow down. The white was blinding. A white out.

I lost control. I lost control because I was trying to miss whatever was in the road. The car started to slide and I…I…I didn’t know what to do. I lost control of the car and it tumbled down, crashing into the ravine. I climbed out through the front, where the windshield is supposed to be. I fell in the snow, hitting my head on a fallen tree branch. It hurt so bad. The snow turned red. Red like his little ball.
I could smell gasoline. I started to run. The car was going to blow up. So, I ran. But I fell again. That’s when I heard him. He was crying. He was crying, “Daddy, daddy!” He was crying.

You left them! Coward! You are a drunken coward!

I left them in the car…in the freezing night…I left them. He was crying. He doesn’t know. He was afraid and he was crying. And I left them.

It’s so cold.
I must stand up. I must get back to the car. I should help them. Yes, that’s what I will do. I will help them. I promise you God, I will help them. I will never take another drink, God... I will hold him. Hush little baby, no more crying…daddy's here...

It’s been three days. They are dead. You left them and now they are dead.

No! I have to get to them; I can do it. I can find them. I scream as the pain streaks up my leg and into my groin. Tears are falling from my eyes. The pain…

He was crying too. Just like you. Just... like... Daddy.

I can. They are in the car. They need me.

Or maybe…

I waited.

Or maybe they left you.

I am so cold.

Wednesday, November 2, 2016

The Book

This pain. I fear should I touch it; the fierceness would burn away the flesh of my fingertips.The supreme brilliance would be blinding, should my eyes fall upon its face. All sounds would forever cease if I came too nigh to Pain’s rhythmic cadence.
This pain.

Six decades have passed since I spilled from the womb; gasping for my first breath as the woman who would be my mother inhaled her last. I have diligently traveled the roads life delivered; dealt to me by whatever powers dictate our fate.  Not unlike an obedient servant, I climbed hundreds, nay… thousands of mountains; I entered, without pause, into the darkest bends; I descended naively into valleys that were laden with sharp edges. Yet my obedience is honored only with—pain.

Pain is not a stranger to me. I have felt the pain that comes with a flowering youth, devoid of a mother. I survived the pain of embarrassment that poverty delivers to her captured denizens. I recall the dark pain that accompanies harsh illness. I have shared the pain that belongs to others, the ones that I have loved. And I have cried at the pain of loss. None of these alone, nor if you were to bind them together as one, hurl them at me with the strength of Kratos, would compare to the pain that grips my soul this night.

The room is almost dark, a small shaded lantern providing the only light. I sit in my old chair, alone in my old house. I look down at my old body; searching for the nucleus of the pain. I cannot find it for it is not there. It is everywhere. I cannot isolate it, for Pain’s cascade is to great. For a moment, I think it must radiate from my gut, but then it moves—creeping to my heart, and then to my head. It is everywhere. I reach up, trying to stop Pain, my hand touches my cheek; it is wet. Pain laughs.

“It is only a book.” She told me. “Look around, you have hundreds of them.”

She’s incorrect. I passed “hundreds” years ago. The walls of my home are covered with shelves. The shelves are filled with books. The books are…
It is never only a book! Most assuredly true of this one. The one that is now gone.

“Maybe you lost it.” She said.

She doesn’t know anything about me; after all these years, her ignorance bewilders me. I am quite certain she has forgotten that she was the one that gave me the book. Two years ago, it was gift, for Christmas…I think. Now I am the one forgetting. That happens frequently as of late. Pain confuses without affinity. Yet, as certain as I am of her forgetfulness, and my own, I can assure you, I did not lose my book!

 It was Christmas; I remember now. Nothing more than a small stocking stuffer; maybe that’s why she doesn’t remember giving the book to me.

“I think you are getting too upset about a book.” She scolded.

It was more than a book. If I close my eyes I can see the soft cover hiding the cream colored pages. A moment passes, eyes still shut; it is as if the small book were now resting upon my palms, I can feel it. The cover has the sensation of fine leather, but it isn’t. I know it came from culled stock; she had no money then; to be so extravagant would not have been possible. But that does not matter to me.

Behind my closed eyes I stare at the gift. The color was a gentle flaxen, just like her hair, when she had been small enough to bounce on my lap. I turn the book in my hands, remembering. There are no words written on the cover, nor on the spine. The book’s backside is also absent of expression. Fearing I would lose this image, I turn the small knob on the lamp, extinguishing its light, without opening my eyes. I pray the dark will bring sleep. Pain creeps away when I sleep. But I am aware of God’s prior stubbornness in answering this simple request. I suspect tonight it will be repeated.

Minutes fade quickly away. Sleep will not come. I open my eyes, greeting the darkness like the old friend it has become. A light frost settles upon all my senses, allowing memories to become unencumbered. Through the blackness I gaze at that past Christmas morning; she’s not watching as I remove the book from the scarlet stocking; they, the boy and girl, siblings with so much in common, are busily unwrapping the gifts found under the evergreen tree. They giggle like little children; sitting amidst the meager selection of boxes wrapped in colored foils on this Christmas morning. Meager, yet twice as plentiful as the last dozen Christmastides. My eyes move from my children to the small book resting in my hands. Lifting it close to my face, I inhale its sweet fragrance. Slowly I open the cover—the pages are blank, pure as Christmas snow.

Does she know?

I had not told them of the visit to the doctor; there was no cause to do so. He told me that the dementia would progress slowly at first…hopefully. He could sight cases that reaffirmed his prognosis, but was also compelled to share the stories of the disease’s ability to rapidly progress. He has been my friend longer than my physician; I believe on that morning, he may have been speaking as a friend.

Only a few months passed before memory loss became more apparent, not to them, only to me. It was minor things; they would not have been aware of anyway; where had I put my razor, what day of the week was it?

I returned to his office. He offered nothing new, only fresh advice. “You should journal your thoughts. Write down the things that are important to you… things that are too precious to forget. You will need a way to keep your memories.”
I left my friend’s office with the intentions of adhering to his advice.  I walked down the road to the Woolworth’s, I would purchase a journal; a Memory Keeper. It was welcomed advice, “…too precious to forget.” 

Inside the store, decorated with red and green garland and signs announcing the coming season, I could not find a journal. I left after making a small purchase, a dozen Eberhard Blackwing 602 pencils. Soon, I would travel to the next town; I remembered seeing journals at the book store I often visited there. By the next day, I had forgotten his advice. I couldn’t remember why I had bought the pencils; they sat on my nightstand, unopened, until that Christmas day.

Pain has returned. Its grip tears at my soul. I should light the lantern. Do something, anything to stop thinking about the book. But I can’t…it is all I had…it is all I was.

I close my eyes again. Christmas morning turned into Christmas day. Snow is falling. After filling their bellies with waffles and sweet cream, they tell me of their plans to go caroling with their school friends. She asks me if I would like to come. I decline, I tell her that a frog should never sing in a crowd. They laugh and scamper out the door, leaving the floor covered in discarded and crumbled Christmas foil. I will clean it later, but first there is something I must do.

I open the package of Blackwing 602 pencils and sharpen two with a penknife. On the first page of the faux-leather journal, I write the words—Memory Keeper. For the next three hours, I wrote my words, my memories, on the pages of this most precious Christmas gift. Each day that has passed since, before my head rested upon my pillow, I recorded a memory on the cream-colored pages.

Until three days ago. That is when she took my book.

My desire was to record my memories of life with my children. I began by telling them about their birth. They came into the world only moments apart. I wrote about their first words. I wrote about the times I made them cry and the times they made me cry. I told them about their mother. She died before their third birthday; they can’t remember her without sharing my memories. I wrote about past Christmas mornings when there was little under the tree and waffles were served without sweet cream. I shared a father’s memory of the sadness I felt when I couldn’t provide more, and of the pride I felt when they never showed disappointment.

As the months passed and my illness slowly progressed it became difficult to reach back in time and find memories to record in my journal. They were there, the memories. But they are cloaked in a fog that confuses. Sometime I see them but think it is a memory that must belong to someone else. I thought I should perhaps write of each new day’s events, but my short-term-memory (words spoken by my doctor), faded as quickly as those of the past. By noon on some days, I could not remember what I had for breakfast. Sometimes I couldn’t remember if I had breakfast. My children, now almost young adults, did not seem to notice; even when their names momentarily escaped into another world. I had learned that senility is possible with dementia; thankfully I seemed to only suffer the memory loss. At least I hope so. If I did something that might be considered senile…well, I don’t remember it.

In those times that I could not write, I would read my own memories. I took note that some had been repeated; perhaps those were the good ones. A few days ago, I turned to the last few pages of the small flaxen journal, now stained with the oils from my hands and coffee from my mug. On these last few pages, someone had written gibberish. It made no sense at all. I cried. Someone had stolen the last canvases I have. No more memories can be written. I wanted to tear the butchered pages out of the journal and throw them into the fire. I am afraid if I do the other pages will fall away, taking my memories with them.

“I think you are getting too upset about a book.” She scolded.

She must have read it. She must have seen the gibberish and thought I wrote it. That’s why she stole my book.

Oh, dear God, please make this pain stop.

“Maybe you lost it.” She said.
“Maybe you stole it!” I answered.

That was three days ago. I think.
She won’t come back. She won't talk to me. I shouldn’t have said it. She’s my little girl.

I hope she will bring my book back to me. If you see her, will you ask her?  My memories of my children are written on the pages. I should tell her that, maybe she will give me my book back. She would like my children; they were my everything. I hope she brings them back. Then the pain will go away.

This pain.
I touch my cheek; it’s wet.
I think I will just sit here and wait a little longer

Maybe the memories will come.

Random Thoughts

Hold My Hand

If you were to ask any of my children what colloquial truisms they recall their father uttering as they passed from toddler to young ad...