Four Memories

Fiction

The Last Summer

After each visit, I’d readjust the swivel chair my mother sat on to face the other. Until one day, she no longer did.

Sitting Next to the Johnsons at Church, April 7th

Their son offered me his Hot Wheels car as we opened our Bibles. I took it, and he smiled because he knew I’d return it to him. The sermon finished. The Johnsons held hands, saying goodbye. I looked back and caught the distance between them.

Fragments of a Stranger at 2 a.m.

Two conversations. One about Kafka’s quote of not editing your soul and the other on loneliness. Photos from the mirror with your face hidden. A voice recording of you explaining an unknown landscape to soothe me. The subtlety of my fingers reaching for where I need you.

Final Moments with My Grandfather in My Childhood Home

There’s a disturbance of your loss and a remembrance of the physical pain. A bruise doesn’t lie, but it blurs as I experience you departing. I kiss your forehead and forgive myself.