Forget Me Not

The pale flowers sat there on his desk, but he ignored them. He didn’t know why they were there. They had died a long time ago, but there they remained, mummified by time and a dusty old book. Someone had given them to him… he couldn’t remember who. That was ironic, wasn’t it? They are forget-me-nots. Why can’t I remember?

He woke up with the bottle in his hand. He had forgotten to label it.

“Such bad practice,” he muttered to himself, “not labeling things. Now I’ll never know what was in this bottle.”

It wasn’t liquor, nor wine, nor ale of any kind that he had known. It was one of his potions, most definitely. But for the life of him, he just couldn’t remember what it was for. He peered through the green glass, hoping to glimpse a drop that had been left behind… but nothing remained.

The old alchemist sighed deeply, then set the bottle down. He stared out the window, watching as the leaves danced across the tainted sky. It smelled like rain again. Petrichor. The smell of earth and water, bringer of life.

The alchemist thought himself quite clever, and grabbed a quill to write down his thoughts on rain, dirt, and philosophy. His ink pot was already filled, with quill dipped conveniently inside. But his journal… where was it?

He glanced around the room in a rather confused state, until he saw that the familiar leather cover had camouflaged itself with the wooden floor. He gently picked it up and began to thumb through the old pages. They had begun to yellow after many years of use. Very few pages were left blank. For a moment, the alchemist felt a twinge of dread. Like the journal, he had become old and faded, and he feared that he had very few pages left in the story of his life. He had given up on the ultimate goal of alchemy long ago. There was no elixir of life, no philosopher’s stone, no eternity waiting for him to find. Only a lonely tower and some wonderful memories. Memories… but what were they?

“Oh, awful curse of old age? Where have you taken my memories?” he cried out in anguish. He grasped the quill firmly in his gnarled hand, but before he began to write, he noticed a small fold on the last page.

He gently set the quill in the ink and flipped to the last page. Upon opening it, a piece of parchment fell into his lap, along with a photograph.

He gingerly held the old photograph up to his aging eyes. A young woman gazed back at him warmly. She looked familiar… but the alchemist couldn’t remember who she was. Another memory lost, perhaps.

He set the photograph back in the book, then picked up the letter and began to read.

My Dear Anais,

I’m afraid that I won’t be able to meet you at your tower today. My condition has worsened since we last met yesterday, and I am far too weak to stand. The doctor says I don’t have long, but what does he know? Remember how we used to make fun of him? You always thought alchemy to be superior to medicine. I suppose it makes little difference now.

Have you made any progress on the potion? I know you are trying your hardest, and that’s all I can ever ask for. I have faith in you, my dear. If anyone can find a way to cure this dreadful plague, it’s you.

Though I can feel the darkness closing in around me, I still know you are there for me, working your hardest. No matter what is to become of me, remember this: I shall always love you.

I hope this letter finds you in time. I sent the fastest messenger in the village. Now, I must be getting some rest. I am growing very tired as I write. Oh well, I suppose I’ll just have to write again tomorrow. I hope to see you soon in better condition.

Love,

Adelinde

P. S. - Forget me not

The old man’s eyes began to fill with bitter tears of a long-known grief. He remembered. He remembered everything. The cries of pain. The look of desperation on her face. How she seemed to wither away before his eyes. He was no alchemist. He couldn’t make an elixir of life, nor a philosopher’s stone. He couldn’t stop death. He couldn’t save her. He loved her. He loved her still, even after all those years. Years of forgetting. She had said “forget me not.”

He didn’t care. He dropped the letter as though it had burned him, crushing it in the pages of the journal. The book flew across the room, propelled by the rage that comes with loss. It lay on the wooden floor, almost invisible.

He needed something stronger than liquor, stronger than wine, stronger than ale. He became a blur. He ground seeds and sprinkled dust and swirled together a concoction more potent than any poison. He didn’t know it, but his tears were the key. It was a miraculous amalgamation, the potion. He haphazardly ladled it into the green bottle, waiting impatiently for it to cool. Alchemy… it was like an addiction. Escape from the world, from the pain. Forget it, all of it. This was the price he paid for the bliss of ignorance.

He didn’t label the bottle. He didn’t write down the recipe. He drank it all, not a single drop remained.

And then, the alchemist collapsed into his chair, bottle still in hand. He woke up the next day.

The pale flowers sat there on his desk, but he ignored them. He didn’t know why they were there. They had died a long time ago, but there they remained, mummified by time and a dusty old book. Someone had given them to him… he couldn’t remember who. That was ironic, wasn’t it? They are forget-me-nots. Why can’t I remember?