Remember Me

    I've been posting so irregularly lately, not for lack of desire, just for lack of time. Violin, school, and deepening my relationships with people and with God have consumed all my time, and I wouldn't have it any differently. (Though, it would be nice to have some more time for writing.) 

    Anyhow, in the midst of all this I'm beginning work on my first story review post, which should come up before the end of January! (At least, I hope so.) But until then, here's a short story I wrote last semester at approximately ten PM. It may be good, it may not, but I would love some feedback regardless.

Remember Me

Brother, I will not forget you.

It is his first waking thought. His every worry. His battle cry.

On good days he can remember when he and Michael were young, how they would trample their mum’s garden playing pirates, how they never let each other face the monsters under the bed alone. On bad days he remembers only that he had a brother. 

He tries so, so hard just to hold onto even that.

When his son (he’s Michael too, Young Michael, even though he’s fifty-two) comes over every Saturday, he asks for the same stories he had once told. Of his brother, always his brother, how they lived together and should have died together. 

It’s on a Sunday morning (or is it Saturday?) that he forgets his brother’s name. Forgetting names is usual for him—he can’t even remember his own—but this, well. This comes slowly, surely, ominously. He’s puttering about the kitchen as usual, humming mismatched fragments of tunes he can’t name. He opens the window shade to let in light, and on the other side of the curtain there’s the most vivid sunrise he’s ever seen. 

“Oh, you would have loved this,” he mutters, and stops. There’s a vague sense of uncertainty floating in his mind, as though there’s someone to whom he should be talking, and he just can’t remember.

Can’t remember. That’s always the problem, isn’t it?

He struggles into the nearest chair, bony knuckles grasping the arms. Who else would be there? Who else should?

Brother. The word gently eases into his mind. Brother, I’m sorry I forgot you. I’m sorry I can’t remember.

There’s a knock on the door. Absently he paws at the tears clinging to his nose and rises, shaking. 

“Come in.” 

A tall, middle-aged man with a shock of fair hair is standing at his doorway. Behind him in the hallway is a pretty, round-faced woman herding a gaggle of children.

He has no idea who they are.

“What are you doing in my house?” he demands, irritated. Surely he should have the right to know who his guests are, before coming uninvited.

The man just looks sad. “It’s me, Michael. Your son.”

Something comes to life in his memory. “Michael.”

“Yes. Your son,” the man repeats.

“I have a son.” The thought is foreign. “I must have had a wife, too. And a brother.”

It hurts, that he knows these things must be true, but they have no life in his mind. 

The Michael-man looks even sadder, if that were possible. “Dad, can we come in?”

He nods, the bare motion of a gesture, and then putters back through the kitchen. But then he stops. Brother. I had a brother.

“You are my son?” he asks, voice trembling in the thin air. “Then tell me about my family. My brother. I want to remember, before I die.”

The Michael-man looks as though he’s about to weep, but instead he sighs. “Dad—”

“Tell me. Before I die.”

Brown eyes glisten with tears. “My mom, your wife, her name was Julia. She died three years ago.” He sucks in breath. “Your brother was also named Michael. He was killed during the war, you told me, but never anything else. I’m sorry, Dad.”

He feels for his son’s hand and awkwardly pats it. As though he’s the one giving comfort. 

“Thank you.” His voice is hoarse. Brittle. “For helping me.” He sits down again, leaning against the slotted chair back and closes his eyes. Michael, brother, I’m sorry I forgot you. I will remember your face soon enough. We’ll be together again.

He feels his son moving next to him, moving the woman and children towards the door. “We’ll be back tomorrow,” the Michael-man’s voice says, but it sounds far away. He feels himself moving toward sleep already. Dreams are the only place he can remember more than fragments.

He falls asleep with a smile on his face.

——

They find him there, the next morning, a smile etched onto his pale cold face. His still-warm hands are frozen around the chair’s arms. 

“Thanks for everything, Dad,” Michael whispers. “I promise I’ll remember.”

---

soli Deo gloria,

Hannah