Morning by Morning
Flash Fiction 03
My mouth was parched, my eyes struggling to open. Guardrails, instead of Frank’s arms, surrounded me. Our wedding ring quilt was folded across my feet. I wondered when I last heard his beautiful baritone singing. Most memories were out of reach.
All I had left was wondering. Wondering where home was. Wondering if I had family. Wondering if the room I lived in would be the room I would die in.
Fluorescent lights forced me awake as Nurse arrived. “How’s my favorite lady this morning?” She asked.
“Thirsty,” I whispered. She offered water.
“Your visitors are waiting,” Nurse said. While she changed my diaper, I picked through my mind, hoping I’d remember the visitors.
Nurse wheeled me to the fireside room toward three young’uns drifting between childhood and adulthood. A young lady with dark curls plucked at a mint typewriter.
“I’m telling you,” insisted a golden-haired boy standing behind her. “It’s poetic!” He read over her shoulder. “Stop typing what I’m saying, silly. You know what I mean, right?” He gestured to a boy with jet black hair and dark eyes. When the three saw me, they rose.
“Hey! There’s our girl!” The gold-haired boy brought me to their table. He wore a letterman jacket with an arrowhead patch.
A memory flickered: a flag with that same arrowhead hung over an upright piano. Mine. I couldn’t think of where it was, but the victory of an almost-memory gave me a sense of peace.
The girl hugged my shoulders and said “Happy New Year’s Eve, darling.”
I don’t remember their names.
The dark-haired boy brought a glass and offered water. The three took turns telling me about their bittersweet holidays. They carried their own griefs, but with hope that only young people shine with. But the girl’s new typewriter was the real buzz of the moment.
“Seal?” The familiarity of my name was a comfort. “Seal?” repeated the girl. “Let’s write together.”
“Write what, dear?” I questioned.
“Moments to remember. Like a keepsake for your mind,” she offered.
The gold-haired boy grabbed the typewriter and lifted it high. The hearth’s fire reflected on the finish. “See? A weapon for memory!” He declared.
The girl rolled her eyes, retrieving her gift. She resumed typing.
“Weapon?” I questioned.
“Smith-Corona had to stop making typewriters and switch to rifles,” he started.
“Just for WWII,” the dark-haired boy interrupted. “Still have my dad’s. Solid thing.”
“Exactly! Solid as their typewriters,” he continued. You could say they’re still a weapons company. Same as Remington. Guns and typewriters. Letters and bullets.”
The dark-haired boy shook his head. “Golly, you’re dramatic. But you make me miss my imagination.” He poked at the fire. “Maybe I could imagine away my war memories. You know, the one with real weapons and real bullets?”
The girl stopped typing and bit her lip while watching him. Were they friends? Sweethearts? I didn’t know.
“Sorry, pal.” The gold-haired boy licked his lips. “Wasn’t meaning it’s the same. Just—”
“Poetic, I know.” The dark-featured one sighed.
“Well, the war is over, thank God. Bullets break things and I’d rather build things. So let’s build a nice memory for our dear Seal?” The girl said without looking up from her typewriter.
I didn’t realize there had been a recent war. When I started to wonder about it, decided that it was one good thing to not remember.
“How’s about a jig-saw puzzle for your imagination?” The gold-haired boy grinned while holding a box with a colorful illustration. “Let’s hope it has all the pieces for this masterpiece.” He pulled his friend away from the fire and they got to work.
Their chattering blended with fireplace whispers. I stared at the flames, searching for voices my memory let go of. Tears dripped down my cheeks. I have become a child—a forgetful one. I wish I could remember what I love or who loves me. If I don’t remember my life, was it worth anything? I’m sure I used to know how to love and be loved. But love can only find me and love me with nothing in return.
I wilted in my chair, realizing my thirst.
Then I heard it! Sweet laughter. The dark-haired boy called to me, “Come and see.” He guided me to behold a Victory puzzle featuring a red carousel. Smiling children, bright balloons, frolicking puppies, Arabian horses. The sounds of the whirly organ reel rang through a memory trying to form.
“We met near a carousel like this,” he said. “And now you’re stuck with our visits.” He added with a smile.
They waited patiently as I tried to piece together my mental puzzle. “You’re not my grandchildren?”
The girl said gently, “You don’t have children.”
“That can’t be.” My voice trembled. “Sometimes I hear and see them. I feel them in my bones. I had Frank and I had my children.”
The gold-haired boy held my hand. “You were a music teacher and are still most loved.”
After a while, the jet-haired boy opened a well-weathered Bible marked with Frank’s initials. “Nurse says you have a favorite passage.” He read:
The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases, his mercies never come to an end;
they are new every morning; great is thy faithfulness.
The verse beckoned me like an oasis in the desert of my memory. It called me to come and drink. I asked him to read it again. His eyes watered as I asked for it a third time.
I repeated the words and the piano came to mind again. My fingers danced on keys in my memory and I began to hum along as I heard Frank’s voice join me in singing:
Great is thy faithfulness
Great is thy faithfulness
Morning by morning, new mercies I see
All I have needed thy hand hath provided
Great is thy faithfulness, Lord unto me
When I caught my breath, I looked at the girl, beaming.
She nodded. “I typed everything we’ll want to remember.”
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Read Next: Bendable
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Scripture passage: Lamentations 3:22-23 (ESV)
Hymn verse from: “Great Is Thy Faithfulness” by Thomas O. Chisholm
Beautiful!! Such a sweet, captivating story!