Memories

Tom clicked on the television and sat on his favorite chair near the fireplace. He placed the crocheted blanket over his lap and settled into the velvet chair he had owned since his thirties. He felt the smooth ridges of every carefully knotted piece of yarn on the yellow blanket which his mother had spent years making just for him. This piece of clothe was one of the only things he had left from his childhood, which he couldn’t remember very well. 

People would say Tom was a sort of sentimental type. He kept old bullet shells from his father’s army years and tickets with the ends torn off from trips to the theater with friends. He held a few old pennies dating back to 1926 in a cabinet next to his bed, along with a few buttons that belonged to his grandfathers wedding tux. There was also a picture of Tom and his father in his wallet, but it was ripped in half. The other half he had not been able to locate, but he was desperate to know who else was in the picture. He knew there was another person in the photo, considering an arm was wrapped around his back, but he could never even narrow down who it was, no matter how hard he tried.

Tom’s childhood years were not only foggy, but completely misplaced. Tom had very few things that he kept from when he was a kid, such as the blanket and a few army men that he couldn’t bare to part with, but he wasn’t sure where they came from. The only reason he remembered why the blanket was from his mother was because of the tag that he had left, reading: To my beloved Tommy, From your loving mother. He couldn’t place his mother’s face in his mind, which upset him. According to his father, she had died when he was only 13 years old. A drive by shooting. He was a little glad that he hadn’t remembered her dying. That could really scar a kid. 

The reason that Tom couldn’t remember much, his doctor told him, was because of Alzheimer's, which started in a persons’ mid sixties, but he was only forty-seven years old. Tom didn’t like to worry about it, and he couldn’t mourn over something that he hadn’t remembered. He didn’t have to worry about childhood trauma like some people he new or heard of on the television.

The News was talking about a new, popular movie while Tom got distracted by a bird outside. It was one of his favorite birds, a goldfinch. It wasn’t actually gold, but a pretty yellow instead. Tom’s favorite color. It’s tail and wings were black with little white lines. When it sang it sounded like it was saying, very quietly, “po-ta-to-chip”, and Tom chuckled slightly at that. It was bright outside. The sun shone through the windows and stung Tom’s eyes. 

Tom directed his attention back to the News. They were now talking about the weather. A pretty young woman was pointing to different sections of the map, sometimes seeming to push clouds to a certain area. She was telling the camera about the sunny weather that would continue in Greeley until two days later. Tom smiled. He loved the sun. He enjoying bird watching and reading his favorite books on the front porch, but most of all, he loved when he spread the curtains to reveal beautiful sunlight that danced across his wooden floors.

Tom was lost in thought, thinking of the goldfinch and the good weather to come, when thunder shook the floors beneath him. He gripped, startled, at the edges of his chair and jerked his head towards the windows. The goldfinch was gone and rain was pouring onto the tree leaves. A loud, obnoxious alarm sounded and the television displayed an extreme thunderstorm warning. Tom composed himself and quickly headed towards the front door of his cabin. He grabbed his thick jacket of the mahogany coat hangers and opened the front door. Why? He couldn’t recall.

Since Tom’s cabin was close to the woods with little to no neighbors around him, it was difficult to find shelter. He ran through the tall grass, feeling it brush past his knees, until he stumbled across a bridge made of gray stone. Initials were scrawled across the minerals, representing past couples or people with unrequited crushes coming to confess their love. Tom never had loved anyone romantically. He had never even been on a date. It just never interested him. He had been fine, almost happy, with being alone. 

Tom hid from the rain underneath the bridge. He could hear the water dropping above him and he could smell the wet grass beside him. He found a dry spot with no sticks, loose nails, or litter and sat down. His back was aching and his head was spinning. He was old, but he didn’t think he was that old. He had only ran a few yards. 

The rain showed no sign of stopping. He sat for what felt like hours, but in reality it was only a mere half an hour. His eyes felt heavy and his legs felt sore. He was thinking about the goldfinch he had seen just a few minutes ago before he dosed off into a peaceful sleep, filled with the smells of wet grass and the sounds of rain dropping on thick stone.

A voice awoke Tom. He jerked upward and twitched his head from side to side. The voice had a high, sweet tone, and it was saying Tom’s name.

“Tom,” it called, “Wake up Tom.”

But as hard as he tried, Tom couldn’t find that voice. He stood up, walked to one side of the bridge, covered his face to hide from the rain, and looked out into the trees, but nothing. So, he walked to other side, covered his face, and looked from left to right for the strange creature.

It called again, “Over here, Tom.” It was coming from behind him.

Tom whirled around and saw a bird, but he would never be able to find it in one of his bird books. The bird was pure gold and its body was about the size of Tom’s head. It’s tail fathers ran nearly to the ground and it’s wings spread out at least 2 feet. It looked almost phoenix like. 

Tom stared in awe as it flew around him, brushing it’s tail feathers against his back and arms, before it flew out and away from under the bridge. Tom would normally not follow something that could possibly kill him if so inclined, but curiosity overtook him. He walked along as the bird twirled through different trees and around stones.

The bird was headed towards a particular tree with vines hanging from different branches when Tom stopped. This tree looked fairly familiar. Suddenly, Tom remembered being a kid, sitting on this swing that he and his mother had made together. He would sit on it for hours, watching birds until, for some reason, he stopped. He was with a kid, Tom remembered, but he couldn’t think of who. He couldn’t remember what the kid looked like, or even their gender, but he remembered that the kid was there.

The bird came and sat on Tom’s shoulder. Tom never looked up from the swing. The bird whispered, “Come on, Tom. I have more to show you.”

“Show me?” Tom asked, but the bird was already twirling around more trees and flying around more stones. Reluctantly, Tom followed. 

The bird led him through path ways, and across the confluence of the two rivers that flowed through Greeley. More and more childhood memories were coming back to Tom, all with that same kid, but Tom could never remember what they looked like. He remembered climbing in the trees, playing in the river, and even the made up games that they used to play, but nothing more, until they stopped at the cemetery. 

“Why are we here?” Tom asked the bird

“You’ll see,” It replied.

Tom felt uneasy. He didn’t want to continue, but he did. 

The bird flew and landed on a tombstone with no gifts or offerings. All the other stones had flowers or objects that the people in the ground below cherished, such as a little boys toys or an old woman's photo album. When Tom reached it, he read the name Jonathan Sentury and he felt tears run down his cheeks. 

That was the name of the kid, he now remembered. Jonathan Sentury was his best friend when Tom was 13. Johnny helped him when his mother had passed, and he never judged Tom when he didn’t want to talk about the girls in his class or when he didn’t want to go to the movies because he was too tired. 

The stone read 1976 to 1989. Johnny had died only a year after Tom’s mother.

As he sat there, poking and prodding at his brain for an explanation, he remembered everything. 

On the anniversary of his mother’s death, Johnny took Tom to the cemetery so he could bring her flowers and wish her a happy birthday. When Tom started crying, Johnny took his hand and told him it going to be alright. Tom turned around and hugged Johnny tight. 

“You want to go to the movies?” Johnny asked, “We can see a comedy.” 

“No I’m fine,” Tom responded, “I think I’m just gonna go home and read.”

“At least let me walk you there,” Johnny said, and so he did. While they were walking, Tom never spoke and Johnny never asked him too.

On the way to Tom’s house, they spotted a man across the street with his hood up and his head down. 

When Johnny noticed him he advised that they went the long way, and Tom listened. He knew that Johnny was right.

They turned to the right and headed towards the park which was only a half a mile away from Tom’s house. To get there they needed to go through a small path with fences on both sides. Beyond the fences were trees that went on for God knows how long. As they were walking down the path, the man with his hood up and his head down emerged from behind the trees. When the boys realized what was happening they tried to run, but the man was faster. He grabbed Tom from behind and put him in a choke hold. He screamed, causing Johnny to turn around and the man to put a gun to Tom’s head. 

Johnny stopped. He stared at the man, then at Tom, then at the gun. He stepped forward slowly.

“Take another step and I blow your brains out kid.” The man warned. 

Tom could barely breath. The man had his arm wrapped around his throat, blocking his means of air. He noticed Johnny slowly reaching for his back pocket. That’s when Tom remembered the blade that he had always carried with him. He shook his head in a panic. Tom knew what would happen if he took out that knife.

When Johnny had grabbed it out of his pocket, he was no more. The man had pulled the trigger as soon as he saw what Johnny was holding. Johnny fell to the ground.

“Johnny!” Tom screamed, The man let go of him and he immediately rushed to his friends side. Tears streamed down his face. He gripped at Johnny’s shirt and stuffed his face into his chest. He turned around, sobbing, and saw the man standing behind him. His face was expressionless, his body was stiff. He raised the gun to Tom’s head and…

Tom stood over the tombstone, remembering everything. The bird was gone, and a boy had taken it’s place.

“It’s time, Tom,” Johnny said.

“Yeah…” Tom replied. When he looked over at Johnny, he was leaning on the gravestone to the right of his own. This one had the name Thomas Bardot carved into it’s face. 

Johnny reached forward, his palm facing upwards, but Tom pulled him in for a hug instead, and Johnny took him away to rest peacefully.