Tag: Memory

The Old Sleigh

Of all days for the truck to break down, Liam grumbled to himself. The coldest day of the season so far, and the only way to get the feed out was Gramps old wooden sleigh. Good thing he hadn’t sold Trix and Mule like he’d planned. The fat things were about to earn their keep again, at least for today.

Sakes! Those buckles were a job and a half! Trix danced sideways as the cold metal dangled against her coat, almost yanking Liam off his feet as he fumbled to connect the the stupid things. He shook his fist at her after he recovered his balance, and moved around to hitch Mule beside her. Even in his work gloves his fingers ached with cold, and his boots felt like ice blocks chained to his legs.

Why on earth did Gramps insist on using this old relic every year? The first thing Liam had done when Gramps died last year was buy a new truck; he’d been bucking for it for years but Gramps wasn’t having it. Liam managed to hook the last of the buckles to the sleigh and hung onto the reins as he clambered awkwardly into the front seat.

“Now to load up the bales,” he said aloud, as if it mattered. Mule, as usual refused to respond to the reins, and he ground his teeth. Stubborn animal. Gramps had always laughed and hollered affectionately at the dappled gelding, but Mule wouldn’t start without a feedbag of oats strapped on his face. It was Gram’s fault; Gramps had always said she spoiled that horse. Liam really didn’t have time for this, but he clambered back down and went for the oats.Oats.

It was Gram he thought of as he drove the team through the trees to the upper pasture. And it was Gram’s memory that stopped him at the crest of the hill, looking down at the little house and barn. Gone for ten years, she was the soul of the place, and even Mule knew it. Guess there was something to be said for Gramps’ hard head after all.

The Cafe

The Cafe was still there, tucked away in its remote little corner. The structures surrounding it had grown even older and more drably brown with time, a stark contrast to its bright colors and neat facade. In the afternoon light it almost seemed a sun unto itself.

The evening rush had not begun, and the sidewalk tables and chairs stood against the wall as if starched and ironed into perfection. The walk itself gleamed, so freshly scrubbed that dust had not had time to mar its brilliance. I smiled. Old Lydia would probably frighten the dust away anyway.

The cafe door opened and Lydia herself emerged from its dark interior, white linen towel and scrub bucket in hand. “Wouldn’t do for the tables not to gleam as brightly as the sidewalk!” I called, a wide grin spreading across my face.

The old lady nearly dropped her scrub bucket, the strongest testimony of her surprise I could ever ask for. She would have died of mortification if it had fallen or splashed onto her precious walk. “Nico!” She carefully set her cleaning implements onto the nearest table and opened her arms wide to welcome me. “How long has it been?”

“Too long, Lydia,” I admitted as I returned her embrace. Beneath my arms her shoulders, though as broad as ever, felt frail somehow. “Too long to be away from home. But with Sofia gone…” I pulled away and looked down at her. “Where else could I go but here to remember her? This place was her soul.”

The old woman’s eyes filled, and she patted my arm. “Come inside, Nico, we’ll make a cup. Sofia’s blend. She will be here with us.”

The Bench

FB_IMG_1590687238016It was perfectly placed, halfway down the walking trail along the river, looking out at the park across the water. The city’s most popular view. In the morning the sun rose behind it over the skyscrapers, leaving it in the shadows as people hurried to work, but in the evenings… oh, the evenings!

The river reflected the glow of the setting sun in the sky, bathing the whole area in rose light. If there were clouds, streams of light pierced them, creating natural spotlights at the edge of the water. People would sit, sometimes absently, sometimes with intention, and leave little bits of themselves along with the fading sunlight.

First, there were children. They never sat, not for long. Their weary watchers would collapse onto the bench, calling nervously for their charges to stay away from the water. Excited chatter and daring balancing acts on the wall would be the response, often accompanied by the indignant trumpeting of geese disturbed in their placid feeding.

Then there were the starched and tied business partners, almost too busy to notice the view. Glued to cell phones, foreheads furrowed in concentration or voices raised in agitation over the status of a deal, they relaxed no more than the keepers of the children. Perched on the edge of the seat, knees jogging nervously, briefcases opened and rustled with feverish haste, they never stayed long.

Then would come the old married couples, hand in hand. With creaking joints they would settle comfortably and gaze out over the water, steadfast and quiet as if the world stood still for them. Sometimes they would talk quietly, ordinary conversations about ordinary things. Mostly they just sat, wrinkled fingers entwined with comfortable familiarity with each other and the twilight.

Finally came the young lovers. Dancing carelessly as dark shadows in the day’s final light show, they laughed and talked and played like children. Only it wasn’t the geese they played with, but the future. Soft kisses in the corner of the bench, playful chases around its back accompanied by laughing protests, whispered promises and sweet caresses echoed across the river as the night descended upon it all.

Dreamcaught

FB_IMG_1590687224460She flew above the world, reveling in the wind that buffeted her. She didn’t know how, she only knew she was. The river tossed her against the rocks; her head hurt and water filled her lungs. “Hush, dear, don’t cry,” her mother soothed, stroking her hair. “Everything will be alright, you’ll see.” She buried her head in Mother’s lap, breathing the scent of lemon and fennel lingering on her clothes. The hands stroking her hair turned to claws that raked her skull and back, drawing screams of pain and betrayal from her aching throat. She ran, the breath ragged in her lungs, her muscles seizing and tripping her. She could feel the beast’s breath on her neck and fell, strength gone, waiting for its jaws to close on her throat. Her mother’s hands picked her up and she flew.

The Memorial

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There they hung, the uniforms, lining the hallway where they had hung all my life. It would be the last time he walked past them for many months, probably years. He took it slowly, pausing before each one to remember.

First the cuffed olive green of his great-great-grandfather’s, the pockets fraying away and the seams worn with age. Although it had been well laundered, he could almost see the bloodstains that must have covered it as it had carried the wounded back behind the lines amid the spatter of gunfire. He rubbed his fingers together, slick with the imagined mud that soaked the fabric in the shallow trenches as rain and explosives pelted the ground. He smiled at the thought of the wrinkles crushed into it by his great-great-grandmother when she welcomed her husband home safely.

He wondered what she had felt when she saw his great-uncle march away wearing the next uniform on the wall. The green had once been the same, but time had faded it less than its predecessor. This one had been mended, the holes where shrapnel had ripped through it still visible despite the stitching. He imagined his great-grandmother’s hands shaking as she arranged the pieces, the only thing returned to her from the trenches of France. Her son’s body had long since returned to dust in the very fields where he died, his cross tended by grateful strangers.

Next hung his grandfather’s tiger stripes. His grandfather had never been able to talk about what had happened in the jungles on the other side of the world. He had watched his grandsons grow and play with distant, haunted eyes. Loud noises had always agitated Granddad, and Grandmother had quietly sent the boys home whenever Granddad lost his temper and started yelling about cowards. His heart had been broken, she had explained, first by the horrors of the jungle war and then by the resentment and ingratitude when he returned safe but changed.

The last uniform was the most important to him, and he placed his hand on the glass case as if by doing so he could touch its owner. Dad had put on the sand colored uniform with its rusty splashes of color as a way to honor the father whose sacrifices had been forgotten. He had worn it proudly for five years, seeing his tiny son only a handful of times before hitting a land mine in a faraway desert. His picture and this last uniform were the reason for this last walk today.

By this time tomorrow, a fifth uniform would begin its own journey to the wall. He placed his forehead against the glass in the closest thing he remembered to a hug from Dad. “I’ll make you proud, Dad,” he whispered before continuing his last walk out of the front door, the promise hanging in the air as the final memorial.