The last signature

"That would be all, I just need you to sign here and here," a young woman pointed at two spots on the papers in front of me. I could see she was tired even behind the mask and face shield she was wearing. At this point, we were all done.

I picked up the pen next to me, a basic, store-bought ballpoint, the cheapest one you could find. It still had an almost full ink tube, it must have been a new one. There were no chewy marks on the tip, how could there be, with a raging pandemic right outside the door.

My inspection of such a regular object probably took more than necessary, since the lady gave me an urging look. I was the only customer in the large office, maybe in the whole building, yet she was rushing me. Glancing at my newly inherited watch, I realized it was lunchtime. Her break was about to start, or maybe has already started, and I was holding her back.

I found the first place where she wanted me to sign, clicked the pen, and laid it on the paper. As I was about to write my name, something stopped me. I didn’t know how to start, which direction the first stroke should go. Up? Down? Or perhaps to the side? How did I write the letter ‘H’ again?

I sat there, stunned by this abrupt change. I’ve been signing my name the same way my whole life, for almost 40 years, yet I could not remember how to do it now. Something I was able to do with my eyes closed, half asleep, at any time was suddenly impossible. All my muscle memory was gone.

“Yes, sign there, please.” The woman reminded me as she saw me hesitating.

“Alright.” I managed to say but my hand did not move. Harold Becker, that was my name. I could see my signature right in front of my eyes, as if I have already written it, but my fingers stood still.

Harold Becker. Name that not only belonged to me, but to my late father. For some reason, my mother was under the impression that me sharing the same identity with her husband was a good idea. It wasn’t necessarily a bad thing but it surely lacked creativity. Over the years, the name grew on me and I even came to like it, although some people still joked around how I was the exact copy of my father. It’s something you have to learn to live with.

If I was ever envious, it was of the way my father signed his name. As an attorney, there were always many documents lying around and I played a game of collecting those that were signed. Needless to say, it got me in trouble. Imagining my father running around only in his underwear and searching for missing papers made me smile under my mask. Luckily, the visibly impatient woman didn’t notice this gesture.

My father’s handwriting was worse than a doctor’s but he became a calligraphy genius when it came to his signature. It was unique and original. It took me long days of begging until he finally agreed to teach me his magic, and when he did, it was a disaster. I was slow, but a passionate learner. Even when I knew how to do it, step-by-step, the finished result wasn’t even close to the masterpiece my father created every time. I did not give up and trained on every piece of spare paper I could get my hands on. My school notebooks were covered with unsuccessful attempts to the point I received a penalty from the teacher for having ugly notes. It didn’t stop me and my effort was finally paid off a few weeks later. I managed to write my name similar to my father’s for the first time ever. From there on, it went smoothly. Whenever I signed my name, was it a test or a legal document, I received compliments. Although I perfected the signature years ago, the flattery never stopped.

I wasn’t able to witness the last time my father signed a document. In fact, nobody was able to see it since it happed behind a thick, hospital door. The nurse dressed in protective gear from head to toe didn’t give his last will nor his signature a second glance before it was secured in a plastic bag and sealed off. Everything that the infected patient touches must be disposed of or disinfected.

After his death, I was gifted my father’s treasured watch and a calligraphy pen. There were other things I inherited but those two items were the most valuable to me. Maybe I was really becoming the exact copy of my father, but I could not care less.

“Is the pen not working? I have another one here.” The lady’s patience reached its limit.

“No, it’s nothing like that,” I answered, unwilling to say that I just forgot how to sign my name.

“Is there some other problem? If you’re still unsure about the date of the funeral, there’s another day available.” She informed me while trying to understand my hesitation.

“The date we set is fine, I have no complains or second thoughts,” I assured her gently while forcing my hand to move. I decided to close my eyes for a moment and try muscle memory one last time.

“I know that usually, cremations happen after the ceremony but there is, unfortunately, no other way since the patient died due to Covid-19.” The woman became chatty just to speed the last step that was taking an awfully long time.

“Yes, I’m aware of that. It’s all good.” I confirmed and let out a long sigh.

Harold Becker.

In the end, I couldn’t remember and used a standard cursive to write it. When I looked it again, it was all tacky and foreign, as if the name didn’t even belong to me. It’s been so long since I last saw it written like that.

The two signatures were nothing alike but the woman couldn’t care less when she collected the papers and placed them into a folder.

“Very well, have a nice day.” Our ways parted.

I was never able to revive the memory of my father’s signature again.