Full Circuit

It had been many years since Louise had walked on her own; so her previous care taker had told me. I watched Louise each morning struggle and groan to her feet, half shuffling, halting stutter steps with her walker to the bathroom, and back to her bed again. It was hard to inspire her to do much else, many had tried and all had failed. Louise was a good fifty, slender graceful beauty of her youth intact; the doctors could not find a reason for her motor skills’ deterioration. The wiring seemed all there, they’d said, but something is missing to complete the circuit.

I’d only been her care taker for 6 months when I first heard her story, or rather stumbled upon it, or maybe it stumbled upon me. I was fetching Louise a blanket from the hall closet when an album came off of the shelf and landed on my foot. As the throbbing pain subsided, I delved into her past. Pictures leapt out from the pages, over and over all the same, her and a dark haired man dancing. Occasionally one would bear the title of this regional semi-final or that, this championship or that. The costuming changed; as did the style of dance as the dancers gracefully aged, but the couple’s posture was the same always linked, then the pictures abruptly ended. One last photo had been removed; I could see the aged yellow frame with a crisp white space where the photo had been.

I phoned Louise’s last care taker and found that she had indeed been a famous ballroom dancer who had disappeared from competition after a love affair. Thinking there was no more to the story I let it go.

Three weeks later flowers arrived. I brought them in, and just before I put them in a vase she came to the kitchen, out of breath, and flushed. I quickly asked what the matter was, and prepared to dial 911. The words tumbled from her mouth… She had smelled the flowers, and wanted to know who had sent them. The card was blank. Her face fell again as did the energy she’d just had. I assured her I would look into it as they were from a florist just down the street.

The next day I stopped in and asked about a bouquet sent to 1027 Valley View Drive the day before. The man behind the counter lit up, yes he knew the order, he had arranged it himself, the older gentleman who ordered it had insisted on every detail. He’d figured the arrangement was for some sort of surprise celebration, perhaps an anniversary. I told him that the card had been blank, and he was puzzled, the gentleman spent half an hour writing, it cannot have been blank.

I returned and shared the news, again there was a brief burst of life, and then her face fell again when I said there was no name, and the man had paid cash.

Another week passed and we had a caller, this was a rare treat as she had no family, and too little time for friendships during those years. A tall man with silver graying hair asked for entrance, on a visit over due. Recognizing him from the pictures I let him in smelling his strong cologne. He had barely crossed the threshold when Louise met us in the hall, his cologne her call.

He handed me his hat and coat, and a CD and bid me put the music on. Both looked at one another aged, stumbling, as they walked. He held his hand out for hers, and she accepted it. And they danced, oh how they danced. And for that brief moment Time stood still to watch. And as the music ceased so did their moment frozen in time, and back to their seats they went. The circuit found its completion after all, and so does this story end.

Home Brewed Tea of Bitter Bitter Memory

Home Brewed Tea of Bitter Bitter Memory

Some days, when the cold rainy fog of life descends I retreat into my memory. I walk even measured steps through the kitchen of my recollection. The one cobwebbed windowsill is alive with herbs of all varieties, each leaf coated with a layer of dust. At first I quickly and haphazardly pick them, but as the dust takes flight into the air, my progress slows. And as more new leaves appear so does my clarity fade.

My thirst deepens as my lungs coat with dust. I pick the last few, and begin my preparations. First I rinse the innumerable specs of dust away which cling to the ridges of each moment. They seem clean enough, though the air is blurred by the invisible unwanted, which become all too visible in the stream of light though the window. I crush each leaf, patiently attempting to extract meaning from these moments; some seem to burst forth with strong fragrances, triggering familiar feelings from within. Others I grind longer and longer and feel nothing; nothing but the emptiness of past tastes and smells my saturated senses refuse to welcome in. After all the moments are processed, I sweep them into my filtered strainer.

I fill the kettle with pure tear water and place it on the stove. My skin reluctantly embraces the onslaught; waves of heat wash over, they release the swift cascading sweat of regret, the light steam billows and swirls and mixes with the airborne dust causing it to fall muting the colors as does volcanic ash poison made ever more potent. I pace the small space as the kettle starts to boil just as my Father did before me; my bare feet leaving tracks in the thin film of dust-mud now covering all I see and touch. Then the familiar scream, the pressure is too much, the heat has done its brutal task,

let the steeping begin.

I thrust the muddled mixture of moments into the scalding sorrow water and wait for the visions to come forth. And appear they do, twisted, ephemeral, with a familiar torturous bent. They haunt, entertain bemuse and befuddle. Speak, they, in wafting hissing whispers of love lost that was never had, moments lost amidst the recollections’ rushing waves that pound, engulf, release and swallow whole again. I am steeped in the permeation of painful indecision, foolish follies all; originators of scars that are my mark to this day. As happens every time, I have chosen my moments incorrectly, and let them steep far too long. I am left with this pot of potent poison of my creation. This is the concoction which I crave to imbibe. I surrender to it so it might digest me and make good on its promise to paralyze, to sharply dull the hurt of now from which I am retreating. This is how I make the bitter bitter tea of muddled moments in memory.