Where did Rome go?

Where did you go without your thick orange sunglasses, keys and journal of schemes? Where did you go with pop’s shoes? Where did you go without your favorite things?

I saved the note on my phone. I haven’t felt excited about my own work in a long time.

Clusters of framed photos of younger and softer family members are the first to welcome me back into our time capsule. Preserved and sweet, like strawberry jam. To my left, a lone standing picture frame of a man in an oversized black leather jacket and receding hairline blooming into long black hair. The photo’s sharpness locked all the lines he earned by his 45th birthday. Thick orange glasses on the verge of falling off the hump of his nose. A new candle sat in the Virgin Mary candle stick, revered by candles at different stages of life. Uncle Rome’s wallet, keys, and sunglasses enshrined on the shelf below. No one had noticed the missing "journal of schemes".

My guilt stirred softly in my stomach. I texted my publisher, Nell, asking for an extension.

Mia was asleep on the faded floral three-seater, the olive velvet drapes partly revealing locked shutters. Soft ginger curls catch the room light. She probably silenced the miracle box TV as she gave in to sleep.

Trumpet blared — Tom and Jerry’s opening roared. I almost dropped the journal and quickly slipped it back into my coat pocket.

“Hi…Albert…” I heard my sister mutter.

I turned to see Mia sitting up, “where’s pop?”

Rarely you found his armchair unoccupied.

“Probably…in the bathroom.”

“Albee when did you get there?” Ma walked in, “…he’s...he's not here?”

“Bathroom?”

“I was…in…there.”

The knots in my stomach tightened after searching the garden. Having the journal sit in my pocket wasn’t making this easier. Mia reported he wasn’t in the garage. Ma called the third person on the list out of five pop would go spend lunch time with.

“His shoes are gone!”

“Why are you whispering?”

“Look!” She panic-whispered regardless.

“What the hell?”

“Pop’s been shining them for 10 years. We can’t tell ma!”

“No one has seen him? Do we call the police?”

“Ma take it easy —,”

“How can I take it easy?! Your father is missing!”

Mia sat her down on pop’s chair and convinced her to pray together. Was this the right time to slip the journal back?

I dashed towards the bulky desktop carried by the slender-legged table and wicker chair. 2005 printed in red blocks on a calendar celebrating Jesus, July 15th circled. Instinctively I switched on the monitor, Windows XP logo illuminated before Pop’s desktop picture: mid-laugh, sweater too large and post boy hat as orange as Rome's glasses. I recognized the bench they sat on.

A text message distracted me — extension rejected.

Heading for the door, “wait for my text.”

I was right but not entirely relieved. The 2015 version of my father sat next to a pair of black leather shoes, holding two small paper cups. His rimless glasses seemed too delicate for the crevices from sunken cheeks and loose skin. I have my father’s nose, flat and prominent. His orange hat still stole attention from the rest of his attire.

He smiled when he saw me.

“Aren’t you cold pop?”

“Na, he won’t take long. Speak for yourself, you’re hardly covered.”

“How long have you been waiting here?”

“Rome should have been here by now.”

“Classic Rome. Always late.”

“What can I say, too late for him to change.”

“Pop, how did you know...to come here?”

He chuckled, “That's a silly question. It's marked on my calendar. He must have been passing by but not staying...kept missing him. I haven't seen the journal in a while. He's probably still sorting things, you know. He'll meet me on this bench. Today.”

It felt too difficult to stand.

“Well…here.” He handed the coffee to me. “I’ll buy him a hot one when he turns up. Look at that, a new park only opened.”

Outside of pop's mind, this park had celebrated ten years last week. So did my marriage, Mia’s business, and Rome’s promise to come back. This wasn’t Pop’s first episode but my guilt was seizing movement and decision-making.

“Are you still dating Stephanie?”

“I’m…actually thinking of asking her to marry me.”

“What did I tell ya! She’s a gem. Don't you like the coffee?”

Uncle Rome liked cappuccinos. Pop’s memory fixates on the pocket of their life when he visited twice a week. Despite the scorch of July 15th, the cappuccinos grew cold. Pop unconscious in hospital and Rome hadn’t visited since. Eventually, his landlady called Mia. I helped Mia secretly sell and donate his possessions over the years. Our parents protested by preserving their home since we "got rid of his”.

“Let’s go home pop.”

“He’s on his way.”

“He knows where to find us.”

“C’mon he’ll be here soon.”

I texted Mia.

“It’s freezing. He wouldn’t want u waiting —,”

“How do you know?!”

Realizing he raised his voice, he tutted, “Christ you’re so impatient. Go back home then.”

“Richard…?”

“Georgina?”

Ma held pop’s carpenter hands, “It’s too cold. I’m sorry Rome isn’t coming today.”

“When did he call?”

“Just now, he said he can’t make it…” Mia added.

Pop stares past us, we know it’s crucial to let him process. To let him decide his next action.

He stained the snow with his coffee before stomping past us. I picked up the shoes.

I wiped the artifact before returning it under Uncle Rome’s shrine. I stood alone in our capsule listening to dishes being washed and Pop explaining with all his conviction that no one else could have taken the journal. If not Rome, who else?

Mia stepped into the living room wiping her hands, glaring, and I understood. She watched me return the journal. Completing the shrine felt inadequate. The match kissed the wick urgently and with that, I stepped into a freezing July 15.