Memory

Two snow covered shoes went stomping up the main stairs, making their way to the fifth floor.  A frozen man near the age of sixty was arriving home from a long day of hard work.  After he opened the door, he threw off his stiff clothes and ran a hot bath.  He sat in silence in the murky water after diligently scrubbing away the dirt that had clung to his sweaty skin.  He closed his eyes and dreamed of childhood; careless laughter and sugar cookies by the plateful, and mother with supper hot and ready when he came home from a long day of football or clowning around.  She would smile and wait for him to finish while listening to all the stories that flowed out in between bites.

         The phone started violently ringing and pulled him from his dreaming.  Angry at the intrusion, he shouted "Go away!", and, as if in defiance, the phone just kept on ringing.  He waited and thought "Four more and I'll get up."  But silence swept back in to the dim apartment and he settled back into the cooling water.

         After finishing his supper he threw his plate into the sink, walked into the living room, and plopped down in a chair next to a small window.  He gazed out at the dark city, while lighting the cigar he had been looking forward to all day.  A few shots of laughter from the apartment next door echoed through the still emotionless room.  He reached over and flipped on the radio to listen to his favorite program.  A smoky voice whispered "…has come again and I have the sound to bring you down.  So sit back and relax, here's Dexter Gordan with 'Willow Weep for Me'..."

    He closed his eyes and smiled as the notes fluttered over him and into the eager room.  He thought of his first high school dance and him standing beside the large group of boys and girls who were awkwardly moving to the rhythm of the music.  He remembered somehow finding the courage to ask the pretty girl in the corner to dance; the warmth of her small hand as it wrapped around his and the panic when he realized he had forgotten to wipe away the sweat.  Then he remembered her smile and the tenderness she used as they swayed across the floor with an ease he never found again.

    He remembered the night after graduation, when his friends were all excited about starting college and all the new interesting people they would meet.  They had told him to visit so he could take advantage of all the college girls who were eager to explore their new found freedom with a mix of fascination and ignorance.  He smiled when he thought of how only a year or two later they were all working at the same factory as him; trying to support their accidental babies and wives.

    He remembered his wedding day, when he felt the world was a wonderful place and how he couldn't get rid of the goofy grin stuck to his face.  His wife giggled every time someone called her Mrs. Dean.  He giggled himself when he remembered how she teased him about his sweaty hands when they danced their first dance.  Then he thought about the picnics she used to drag him to in the country, before her cancer got too bad to travel.  And how, during the last few days, she had him pull out all the old photo albums and reminisce about their seven years together.  Two months after she passed away, he took those same photo albums and burned them in the fireplace.  They weren’t the same without her.  He thought if he burned them, maybe she could have them to look at while she waited for him to join her.  She said she'd wait.  She didn't want to cross over alone.  She wanted to do it together, hand in hand.

    The next morning, he stumbled out into the cold air and walked down the street.  He thought about needing to pay the electric bill and how windy the past couple days had been.  He saw a young couple walking arm in arm and wondered if they were married.  He coughed into the cold air and hoped he wasn't getting sick again.  The wind died down and a delicate snowflake gently landed on the end of his nose.  He pulled his toboggan down a little further and remembered the cigar waiting at home.