Dear Harold

“Come on, Harold. One more spoonful. You’ve got a busy day ahead.”

The woman says, and again I wonder, with fleeting familiarity, who is Harold and what cause he has to be so damn busy. But the thought becomes unsteady, teetering, before it slides into the abyss of stray thoughts that never seem to gain purchase. Then I’m a drop in a pond of the half-imagined, and everything beyond that is grey and unimportant.

“Here,” fingers curl my own around a long silver instrument. “Eat up.”

Though the sensation of holding a thing is absent, the blunt extension moves as I do to the tray tucked into my lap.

A bowl, a plate, a cup. Even as I think the words, they become repetitive and quickly lose all meaning. Familiarity gnaws at my brainstem, but still, I fail to tell the containers apart. I scoop at something beige and congealed, and it might as well be paper machete or dirt for all I can taste of it. For all I can feel of its warmth, its texture. A thick glob slides down my throat, and a spluttering cough follows.  

“Harold? Will it be runners today or sandals?”

I lift my head and expect to find Harold, perhaps a well-dressed man without footwear. A busy man. Instead, I see a bed, a closet. Outlines and colors. A humming comes from somewhere near, and I pat my pockets for the glasses I’m quite sure I need. But the thought slips away, Harold and the glasses both. Buoyant at the very edge of my mind but too far away to grasp. It’s replaced by the fuzzy outline of a woman rummaging through a closet. I blink. The woman remains misshapen. Irregular. Just like her voice, as if heard through cotton wool.

“Harold?”

She’s closer now, and the blur becomes a youthful face, a small crease between her brows. She sighs and folds onto a quilt cover that looks soft and textured. I reach out to brush the fabric, but it's neither of those things. It’s not anything at all.  

“It’s a bad day then.”

But sunlight streams through a half-open window, and a breeze I cannot feel moves the gauzy curtains. It's unfortunate that Harold is having a bad day, I think, when it seems so lovely.

“Shall we read the letter, Harold?”

The young woman moves to a draw, and another mouthful slides down my throat. Tasteless and without warmth. Again, I cough.

“Dear Harold,” she begins, and I leave the blunt instrument on the tray, convinced of its tangibility solely from its weight.

“I hope this letter finds you comfortable and somewhat content. I write to you now for many reasons, and those I will get to shortly.” She clears her throat, and it does nothing for the dull, muffled sound of her voice.  

“But first, we are Harold Thompson. Retired high school teacher, part-time piano player, and sports car enthusiast. We coached Little League, knew every resident of Pembrooke Crescent by name, and took multivitamins religiously for 30 years. Now, we are a victim of a cruel and inexplicably morbid fate. Dementia.” Her voice pauses, and I straighten my aching spine.

“My days have begun to come and go in a sort of weary haze, and I worry I’ve penned this message too late. For now, my memories remain. They play across my mind like the projections at the drive-in. The kind we took Ada to all those years ago, huddled beneath blankets, chaste kisses, and fumbling hands.”

The woman’s lips tilt up in a blurry sort of smile, and I wonder why.

“Ada. Our wife. Your wife. We were married in spring; she wore Lilacs in her hair. I’m thankful every day that she did not live to see us fade beyond recognition. I can only hope that death is just as kind to us, but if you are reading this now, it would appear not.”

Wet sniffling replaces bird song, and I frown at the disruption. It’s a nice day after all.

“If you are reading this, it is a bad day. What you know of yourself is slipping away, and the hope that this letter will restore something forgotten is still high. Your name is Harold Thompson. You taught children respect and morality. You played Clair de Lune while Ada danced, twirling across the kitchen floor, her dress swaying and face serene. You were diagnosed with Dementia in May 2018 after you mistook the gas for the brake. That was the last day you drove the Cadillac. The disease progressed far more quickly than anticipated, and I’m sorry I didn’t write this sooner. I might’ve had more to say.”

The woman pauses again, and I shuffle impatiently. Harold has a very busy day ahead, so she said, and I feel the restlessness in my bones.

“So, my friend. As you read this, I hope that you are well enough and simply having a very bad day.

I hope you still dream of Lilacs and the wild auburn hair of our love. That your fingers still itch to play music that would move her feet and swell her heart.

I hope the countryside is at least a glimmering, if not distant memory.

I hope beyond reason and possibility that Harold is still in there, or at the very least, he’s on his way home to Ada.

All my love and greatest sympathies.

Harold.”

Paper crumples. The crinkling sound muffled and grating like all distorted sound is.

“Harold?”

The woman is at my feet now, two pairs of shoes in hand, and I wonder what they’d feel like if I could feel at all. I lick chapped lips and say with the voice of a stranger.

“Who is Harold?”  

The woman’s face falls, and I turn back to the open window. Sunlight streams into the room, laying golden slithers over the comforter that feels neither textured nor soft. But I smile all the same; it is a lovely day after all.