The Forgetfulness of Things Past

A young nurse adjusts his drip and reviews the charts at the foot of his bed before moving on with a trained smile, Brian places an elbow on the bed, lifts his head slightly from his pillow and glances around the dim ward, wondering if he appeared as old, lost, and confused as his fellow patients from the outside.

Brian looks over at Jimmy, who sits in an orange armchair sipping tea, and remembers that old Kodak Duaflex he’d spent a month’s wages on just after Jimmy was born in ’63, remembers how he’d promised Judy he’d document their lives together as Jimmy grew up, of how he’d intended to print and frame their memories each passing year so they wouldn’t be forgotten; and yet somehow Judy had passed away, Jimmy’s own children were now fully grown, and that camera had long since been consigned to collect dust and spiders the the attic.

As he watches a middle-aged doctor hemmed in by a gaggle of eager students, Brian reflects how the years have merged into one another, that without the aid of photographs as visual reminders, his fading memories seemed to have pooled into a large terrifying mass of hazy remembrance into which all he sees now is his own aged and confused reflection, he looks over at Jimmy and says, ‘Son, don’t forget to take more photos will you?’

© 2016 Occasional Dreams
In response to: Three Line Tales, Week Forty-Five
Image by Grant McCurdy


Thanks as always to Sonya at only100words.xyz for organising and coordinating these three line tales each week.

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