An Old Man and His Memories
by
Wayne Moore
Copyright © 2013

 

The old man sat in a creaky old rocker in his attic, listening to the soft whisper of the heavy rain on the roof.

His eyes wandered unseeing about the small room, lighting momentarily on each relic there.  Memories fluttered in his head like moths seeking a dim flame in which to immolate themselves.

He sighed.

The calendar on the wall indicated December 22, a cheerful "Happy Anniversary" scrawled across its page.  As the silent clock next to it was correct twice a day, so was the calendar correct on this day, though it had not changed in twenty years.

Shadows moved slowly in the dim room, in time with the movement of the lonely street light outside the window as it rocked in the wind.  Dust motes stirred gently in the yellow glow, vague movement in the quiet air.

His joints creaked as much as the chair's as he leaned to reach into the trunk at his feet.

He extracted a brown and crumbling rose from the moldering chest and held it to his nose, smelling its faint perfume, still perceptible even through the dust of ages.  A memory of its glory of long ago.

She had stepped onto the Red Car, struggling to corral the cans and vegetables that were spilling from a wet and tattered paper bag.  Immediately, he had stood and offered her his seat, and in a fit of gallantry, his coat as well, to use as an impromptu sack for her wayward items.  Her eyes smiled at him, as much in relief as in gratitude, even as her face betrayed the fatigue of a long day.  They talked as they rode, and then he escorted her to her door, holding his umbrella over her and letting himself get soaked to the skin.  On the short walk, he had picked this rose for her, risking the wrath of the crotchety Polish woman whose prized flowers he'd molested.  He said goodbye at her door then, but not without assurance that she would be on that trolley again the next day.

He walked her home several times after that, even though it meant passing his own stop, and walking a mile back to his home.

Eventually, he had asked her father's permission to court her.

Just over a year later, they were married, on December 22nd.

 

Another sigh, for memories of simpler times.

As he reveled in this precious memory, his moist eyes fell on an old pair of ragged dance shoes hanging on a nail.

They had danced long into the night, that night, even after the wedding guests had departed.  He had held her close as they swayed to the music, first of the strings they had hired for the reception, then of their own passion as they danced, wishing the night would never end.  He remembered the perfume of her soft hair, and her laughter as he fumbled through the unfamiliar steps, often to the peril of those shoes.

He replaced the rose in its special place and sat up straight.  Knobby hands gripped the arms of the rocker, and his eyes closed.

 

Her mother had given her this chair—made by her own father—as a wedding present.  Long hours his wife had spent in it, before the fire, reading her Bible or knitting an endless succession of slippers or sweaters that he had taken a special pride in wearing.

Sometimes he would sit in it, and invariably, she would come and sit on his lap.  Those were his most special memories, of holding her close to him as they rocked there, before the fire, her sweet scent filling his head with dizzy joy, and his heart with love.

 

A love lost to him for these years.

Salty moisture stung his eyes.

He opened them again, and they came to rest on a glimmer of light.  He saw, as through a foggy glass, bronzed baby shoes resting on the warped wood of an old end-table below her dance shoes.

Wet hair clung to her sweaty forehead, and her now peaceful face glowed with exhaustion and relief.  Her bright eyes opened and gave him a weary look of love, even as the doctor laid the small bundle on her breast.

His eyes brimmed even these years later as he remembered the slight noises his newborn son made as he held them in a careful embrace.  He had never before felt such perfect love and joy, though he had felt it twice since.

Even the sharp scent of her sweat of exertion and the pungent odor of the doctor's medicines and ointments were dear memories as he sat in the dark.

His first son.  Only son.  How he wished he could see him just once more.

He peered now into the chest, and reached up.  The rusty chain of the light rasped angrily in the socket and the darkness retreated into flickering shadow as the naked bulb swung on its wire and cast a stark glare on the room.

He extracted a large photograph from its resting place, and wiped the omnipresent dust from the glass with fingers the same yellowed hue as the picture.

Her face, young and smooth, smiled back at him.  She stood in her dress, as beautiful as ever, his memory lending color to her rosy cheeks as they posed, arm in arm for the portrait.

Tears spilled over onto a face of yellowed parchment, tracing tracks on its sere surface.

Rasp.

The darkness returned, more profound than before.  The picture returned to its place, next to the equally yellowed newspaper clipping.  He needed no light to read the familiar words.

That morning.

He had awakened early, and held her quietly for a long time before rising, carefully.  He loved nothing more than he loved holding her, but there were things to do, and he knew she would wait.  Wouldn't even know he'd left.

He went out to the store to buy some coffee and the morning paper, and when he returned, he found that his son had come to borrow the car while he was away.  He had left a note on the key-hanger, explaining that he would have it for some hours.

A knock at the door.

His world changed forever.

Her bridge club had been planning an anniversary party in their honor, and on the way to the club hall one of the members had discovered their car upside-down in the river.  It had gone off the road in the rain, and come to rest there.

The police found his son's body a hundred yards downstream, but had found no sign of his wife.  The search was called off after two days, and the flooding river eliminated any but the smallest hope.

His daughters flew in from the coast to comfort their father, and he enjoyed the visit, but college would not wait forever for their return.  He was left alone again, in his house full of memories.

The paper had dutifully reported the story, and he had saved the article, though it pierced him to the heart to read it, as he did each year on this day.  The day she had died.

 

Slowly, over months' time, the memories, memories of her, migrated to the attic.  It became a shrine of sorts; a new home for her things.  Now here he was, again in her company, amidst the relics of her life.

Their life.

The paper broke as he fingered it, and he set it down and wept for a long while, silently.

"Oh, my dearest love."  His thready voice broke the still silence.

He smiled, tearfully, as he regarded her face, staring up from the trunk in the darkness.

"How I loved you."

A long silence answered him.

He sighed, heavily.

"And they never did find you."

He reached into the trunk.

He took her into his arms.

And he held her.

 

THE END