Author:
Audience Rating:
Publication:
Genre:
Character Age:
TG Elements:
TG Themes:
Permission:
Remember
Copyright 2023 by Heather Rose Brown
Sometimes, if you're especially lucky, you'll get a brief moment to meet someone you will always, always ... remember.
=-=-=
The paperwork clutched in my hands fluttered in the soft autumn breeze. I had memorized every single word, but I still read through them again anyway. Under the circumstances, it was hard keeping all the words in my head when conflicting emotions kept trying to wash them away. I knew it was important to remember those words, as well as my duty.
After carefully folding the documents, I slipped them into my shoulder bag and took another look at the small, weathered shack. The sun-bleached wood of the clapboard siding was mottled with layers of peeling paint. Dry, dead weeds choked what may have been a large yard at one time. The shutters covering the windows rattled when the breeze picked up.
Everything about this place felt abandoned. Even the chicken coop I'd found in the back was silent. The only sign of life was the bluish-gray smoke drifting out of the battered tin chimney. That meant someone was still living here, which in turn, meant I had a duty to fulfill. As much as I hated this part of my job, it was better than letting these squatters remain ignorant of what was about to happen until the bulldozers showed up.
Just as I raised my hand to knock on the door, a raspy voice called from inside. "Door's open. Come in if you've got a mind to."
Feeling just slightly flustered, I managed to get the rusty doorknob to turn. The heavy door creaked as I pulled it open. When I peeked inside, all I could really make out was a shadowy figure hunched over a small fire at the far end of the room. The figure turned to me and waved. "Don't just stand there lettin' the cold in. Get yer butt inside an' close the door behind ya."
"Beg your pardon, Ma'am," I said as I followed the instructions. "I didn't mean to intrude, but I have these papers I need to--"
"P'shaw! You ain't intrudin'. Nobody finds me 'less I wanna be found, an' today I was in the mood for company. Why don't ya find y'self a seat at the table?"
By the time I had made it to the ancient, formica-topped table and found someplace to sit, my eyes had adjusted to the dim light. I took a closer look at my host, and realized I may have made a mistake. "Umm, should I have said sir instead of ma'am?" I asked, hoping the question wouldn't make me sound too foolish.
My host picked up a cast iron kettle with a folded dishcloth before turning to me with a long, searching look. "I've been called a lot of things, and sir or ma'am have been the most polite ones." Deep lines crinkled around ancient eyes that sparkled in the dancing firelight. "If it makes ya more comfy, you can call me ma'am, 'though I'd prefer Ron."
Feeling a bit off kilter, and slightly confused, I grasped for the first thing I could make sense of, which was the task that had first brought me here. "Ma'am ... err ... I mean Ron, there's something I really think I should let you know."
Ron slowly poured steaming hot water into a pair of delicate china cups, holding onto the strings attached to the teabags in each one so they wouldn't slip in. "Oh, I've known this is my last day here."
"Actually, you have sixty days."
Before I could root through my bag and pull out the paperwork, my host rested a thin, wrinkled hand on my shoulder. "Girl, I don't need a bunch of fancy words all written up nice and legal to tell me when it's my time to go."
I was almost certain we were talking about two different things, but I still asked, "What do you mean?"
Ron folded the dishcloth in half, rested the kettle on top, then carefully settled in the chair across from me. "I mean, today's my last day before I pass on."
My heart ached with grief when I saw the absolute certainty in those lively, gentle eyes. "Oh god, I'm so sorry."
Ron reached across the table and patted my hand. "Don't worry y'self. Ya couldn't have known."
"What can I do?"
"Well, if you'd like, stay and have some tea. Listen to an ol' biddy talk 'bout days gone by. Most important, remember me."
I stayed. I listened.
The fire had turned to embers when Ron fell silent. It took me a minute to realize what had happened. Tears were streaming down my face as I burst out the door and started running across a silvery field under a sky with too many cold, bright stars. I tripped and fell into the thick, scratchy weeds, then rolled onto my back and screamed with rage at the unfairness of ... everything.
Eventually, I managed to pull myself together and slowly made my way back into the house. Ron was still sitting with the most peaceful expression I had ever seen. Carefully, I lifted the feather-light body up and rested it in a sagging, narrow bed. After pulling the covers around Ron's body, I whispered, "I promise, I'll always remember you."
If you liked this post, you can leave a comment and/or a kudos!
Click the Thumbs Up! button below to leave the author a kudos:
And please, remember to comment, too! Thanks.
Comments
Made me stop. Then think.
This was beautifully written with loving detail. We don’t find out Ron’s story, only that they had one, and that the narrator would remember it. And I thought, well . . . a peaceful passing, a sympathetic person to share the moment, and someone to carry your memory, to recall your story . . . . Surely a universal, human desire.
But then I stopped myself, and probed a bit deeper. Do I want to be remembered? Does it actually matter to me? And I was a bit surprised to discover that it doesn’t. I haven’t, thank God, become an existentialist. The past should be remembered. Heroes, heroines, saints and sinners should be remembered. Their examples are a beacon to us — sometimes for things that we should do, and sometimes for things we should not. I remain unconvinced, however, that I should be remembered, and the thought that I likely will not be — not for long, anyhow — does not seem to trouble me.
So there. I stopped. I thinked. And that’s never a bad thing. It’s important to know what matters to you, and not just assume that you want what people ought to want. Thanks, Heather!
— Emma
Everyone should be remembered……
Because as long as we remember them, they are never really gone.
The old saying is, “Gone, but not forgotten,”
I don’t agree with that - as long as we remember those we love, as long as we keep them in our thoughts and in our hearts, they are always with us; they are never gone.
Just a few days ago, one of my great nephews was upset. When I asked him what had him so upset, he told me that he couldn’t remember his great-grandmother’s face anymore. My mother-in-law, his great-grandmother, died just over two years ago. In fact, my spouse just showed me photos of her funeral which showed as a flashback on her phone today.
I sat down with my great-nephew and told him to close his eyes and think of his great-grandmother in context - in a specific place and situation. To remember where she was and what she was doing at the time he was thinking about. Then to look at her in his mind in that setting. He told me he was, so I asked him if he could see her face. He got a big smile on his face and told me he could see her.
If we remember the good times we had with people, we never really lose them.
I will always remember your smiling picture when I read one of your stories, or simply think about your characters, so you will never be forgotten. Not as long as I live anyway.
D. Eden
Dum Vivimus, Vivamus
"I promise, I'll always remember you."
very well told. thank you for sharing it.
wow
i have a giant lump in my throat after reading this .beautifully written tale
Lovely
So much depth and so much feeling packed into so few words.
A true Heather masterpiece.
I think we all want to be remembered. Our children and grandchildren will hopefully keep us in their hearts (if we deserve it!) but after that only a headstone survives. I went looking for my great-great-grandfather's grave. I knew where it was but time had worn away the inscription. Sic transit gloria.
Thought provoking storytelling.
My mom died last year and I realised there were times we had shared together that nobody else knew and once I was gone they would be known by nobody. She told me tales of her Grandmother and Mother most of which I have now forgotten. I could tell other family members my tales but they have their own stories, their own memories, their own lives. I have no offspring to pass those tales on to so I guess that all dies with me when I go. I doubt I will be remembered much - I haven't carved my name on any major achievement. All I can hope for is my sould gets reborn in another body and another exitence. If this is my owly time alive, then I want to spend what's left of t having fun, thats for sure !
Nice tale - got us all pondering which is what a story should do !
Hugs&Kudos!
Suzi
I've got somebody
I can't forget, not sure it's the same as remembering, and it sure isn't luck. But it is what it is. I'm sure I'll make much less fuss leaving than I did entering, and I doubt I'll disturb anybody's memories for very long.
“When a clown moves into a palace, he doesn’t become a king. The palace becomes a circus.” - Turkish Proverb