Memory Loss

Empty boxes stood sentry in the foyer, beckoning Henry. Threatening him. The clock was ticking- three days to pack up his entire life.

He idled at the kitchen table, freshly mopped tile slick under his feet. A lukewarm mug of jet black coffee and an old fashioned donut sat untouched in front of him. The thought of eating turned his stomach. If he ate, then he’d have to read the paper. And then he’d have to get to packing.

Henry has lost everything. First his memories went, achingly slow, minute by minute he lost a little more of who he was to an aggressive dementia. Then his beloved wife Lottie passed in June. 

His children, that entitled lot, felt he shouldn’t live on his own. He only left the stove on once- turns out once was enough. The black smoke stains mocked him from above the stove and microwave. Henry’s chin dipped to his chest as he threaded a hand through his stark white hair.

His slippers shuffled across the lush carpeting as he made his way through the family room. Elvis crooned from the stereo, comforting him. That’s what he loved about music- he may forget the words but the lyrics never changed. If only there was a way to bottle a life, like a record or a time capsule.

He wandered aimlessly through the house, debating where to start. He couldn’t stand to be in the kitchen, the scene of the crime that ruined everything. His steps echoed down the hallway where faces smiled back at him from either wall. He was jealous of their happiness.

Goosebumps crawled up his shoulders as he entered the bedroom. Neatly made, the bed appeared formal but lonely. Is it possible she’d be gone two months now? The mattress dipped under his weight, the fabric of the quilt a gentle texture under his palms. Sometimes he found himself waking in the night and reaching for her. Sometimes he imagined he felt her there.

What to pack from here? He surveyed the space with tired eyes. It doesn’t matter, you’ll forget it all eventually anyway.

Moving to assisted living was the final blow. Losing his freedom was bad enough, but it was leaving the house that gutted him- knowing full well it will soon be a memory he can’t recall. Days when he couldn’t remember his own name, a simple look around this place brought everything back. 

The brightness of the guest room should have lightened his mood, with it’s contrasting carpet and accents. He leaned on the threshold, the door frame solid against his shoulder. Maybe he would tell his children he’s not going. He’s a grown man who can make his own decisions. He’d show them the will, tell them what’s in it for them if he stayed.

Immediately an image of the smoke filled kitchen slithered into his thoughts. What a shame he can’t forget that particular incident.

 Henry folded his arms into himself and made his way further down the hall.

The office brought an ounce of relief. The only place he felt close to her. An oak rolltop desk was nestled in the corner alongside rows and rows of Lottie’s books. Alphabetized, of course. 

An airy floral scent floated about the room. Her perfume lingered in here, like it was trapped within the pages of her beloved novels. Like they didn’t want to let go of her either.

These were just things, yes. But they were evidence of a life lived and loved. He spotted Lottie’s old Minolta perched on her bookshelf. It was a gift for her one anniversary and she certainly got his money’s worth out of it. Frames of all sizes and arrangements cluttered the tops of the shelves.  

Holding the camera now, heavy cold metal in his hands, he willed the memory of that day to return, but his mind remained blank. 

Henry dropped to the edge of his office chair, moisture gathering in his eyes. The halls of his treasured home stood silent, with only the sounds of his crying to be heard until the phone rang. 

This seemed to jar him from his emotions as he rose to answer it, the leather chair groaning beneath him.

“Hey Dad, how’s the packing going?” his youngest daughter asked, blissfully ignorant of her father’s pain.

“Just fine, Sam,” Henry grunted. “There’s just so much of it.”

“You can’t fit all of it. Maybe just choose what you really need.”

Henry shook his head. She’d never understand. How can he explain how these walls were the only thing anchoring his mind to himself?

“How can I choose? The bed I shared with your mother or the chair she died in? The kitchen table we took every meal at or the coffee table we held our Scrabble tournaments on?” He tried and failed to hold the quiver from his voice.

  “I know this is hard Dad,” she said, a little shake in her words.

“I pray you never know this hurt, Sam. Boxing up a life you can’t remember. Losing the place that would never let you forget.” Henry’s gaze fell to his hands, where lines of age ran across them like a city map.

“So maybe we recreate it for you there, set it up the same. Like a little snapshot of home.”

Snapshot.

“Sam, I have to go. I love you.” 

Henry hung up the phone, and charged back to his office where the old camera rested. After locating some film in the hall closet, he spent the remainder of the day documenting home. He captured the mustard yellow carpet in the spare bedroom and the white curtains with embroidered daisies in the bathroom. He photographed the velvety couch that was impossibly comfortable despite its age. He made sure to get the colorful afghan draped across the back that was lovingly crocheted by Lottie. 

The boulder in his stomach shrunk with each picture he took.

At last he stood in the front yard, the waning afternoon sun hot upon his back, as he held the camera to his face for one last photo. His pride and joy, a love second only to Lottie, sat framed perfectly in the viewfinder. Oxygen filled his lungs. Click. 

Henry’s optimism persisted through the following day, when he had the roll developed. He spread the pictures out on the kitchen table and his heart swelled. Home was in each one. 

And just in case the visual wasn’t enough, he wrote some notes on the back to jog his memory, or what’s left of it.

The next day, an expensive coupe idled at the curb in front of Henry’s cherished home. His oldest son Marty met him by the front door, expectantly examining the fully furnished room behind his father.

“Pop, where’s your stuff? Why aren’t you packed?” he huffed, his mother’s temper edging out.

Henry smiled, placing an age flecked hand on the lid of the shoe box in his arms. He patted it lovingly.

“I’ve got everything I need right in here, son. Right in here.”