Memory is a precious thing. But as we age, it can begin to fade.

The simplest things may slip from the grasp of one’s mind. But the game goes on, as you will see in  . . .

Dear Mr. And Mrs. Grinnell

     Marion sat at the kitchen table with her eyes glued to a letter she held in her shaking hands. Her lips trembled. The sun from the kitchen window illuminated a pained expression on her face. She cried out in agony, “We’re going to lose our house. How can this happen to us? We’re octogenarians. What did we do to deserve this?”

     At that moment, Howard stuck his head through the archway to the kitchen. “Marion, you sound like you’re in pain. What’s wrong, dear?”

     “This letter.” She became still and just stared at it.

     “Well, what’s bothering you about the letter?”

     “Everything!” she blurted, as tears poured from her eyes. Hearing no response from Howard, she looked up at him. He just gazed off into space.

     Then he turned toward her and muttered, “Why did I come in here?”

     “Because I needed you,” she said through her sobs.

     “You needed me? What for?”

     “This letter.”

     “All right. Why? What’s in it?”

     “It says we haven’t made our mortgage payment for the past three months and we’re going to lose our house.”

     “How do they know that?”

     “They’re the mortgage company. Shouldn’t they know?”

     “Guess so. Want to play Gin Rummy with me?”

     “Huh? Okay.”

     Howard pulled a deck of cards out of the kitchen counter drawer, sat down at the table across from Marion, took the cards from the box, and began to shuffle them. He then slid them over to Marion to cut.

     She peered at him with an odd expression on her face and muttered, “What are these for?”

     “Didn’t you want to play cards with me? If you did, you need to cut them so I can deal.”

     Marion didn’t respond. But she did cut the cards and in doing so brushed the letter off the table onto to the floor. Howard dealt them each ten cards. He picked his up from the table, spread them out in his hands, and sat there motionless. He then spoke in a somewhat confused drawl. What . . . are these? What do . . . I do with them?

     “Beats me,” Marion shouted with energy that came out of nowhere. And then, as if a light bulb turned on, she gulped, “Don’t you want to play cards?”

     “I think so,” Howard mumbled. “But . . . “

     Before they could get started, the phone rang. Marion reached over to the kitchen counter and picked it up, pressed talk, and sighed, “Hello.”

     “Mom, this is Cindy. How are you?”

     “I’m here.”

     “No, not where are you? How are you?”

     All of a sudden she blurted, “The letter? Where is that nasty letter? It’s not on the table. Oh my god! I’ve lost the letter.”

     “Mom, calm down. What letter are you talking about?”

     “Letter? I don’t know. Dad and I are playing Gin Rummy.”

     “Oh, that’s nice. Is Dad there? May I speak to him?”

     “Howard, a woman wants to speak to you.”

     “Who is she?”

     “I don’t know. I picked up the phone and she was there.”

     “If I don’t know her, I don’t want to talk to her. Ask her who she is?”

     “Who are you?” Marion inquired.

     “Mom, it’s me, Cindy.”

     “Who?”

     “Your daughter, Cynthia Katherine Grinnell.” She thought it best to use her full maiden name so as not to confuse her mother any more than she appeared to be already.

     “Oh my darling, Cynthia Katherine, it’s so nice of you to call. Howard, it’s Cynthia Katherine.”

     Howard reached across the table and pulled the phone away from Marion. “Cindy, dear, how are you?”

     “I’m fine Daddy, but I’m worried about Mom?”

     “Mom? Oh, okay, I’ll get her. Marion, its for you.”

     Marion took the phone from his outstretched arm. “Hello, who am I speaking to?”

     “Cindy—Cynthia Katherine—your daughter.”

     “How are you, Cindy?”

     “I’m fine, Mom. How are you?”

     “Just great. My mind got a bit confused for a minute, but everything’s clear now.”

     “That’s good to hear. You had me worried.”

     “Oh, Cindy, you worry too much. Dad and I are fine. We were in the middle of a Gin Rummy game when the phone rang.”

     “Who’s winning?”

     “Winning? Winning what? I’m so worried about losing our house.”

     “Losing your house?”

     “Yes, the letter stated we hadn’t paid the mortgage in three months. The bank wants to foreclose on us.”

     “Mom, what are you talking about?”

     “Nothing. Don’t worry. Everything will be fine. Maybe Dad and I will go out to eat tonight. Goodbye Cindy.”

     “Mom, don’t hang up. Mom . . .”

     Marion hit the off button on the phone. Now where did I put that letter? She looked across the table at Howard. He held the letter in his hands and had begun to make a paper airplane out of it. “Howard!” she screamed. “Give me back my letter.”

     “Don’t get so upset, Marion. I found it on the floor. Thought it was garbage. And I like making paper planes. You seemed so involved with that woman on the phone, so I just kept myself busy. I’ll fly it over to you.” With that he tossed it across the table. “Happy landing,” he yelled.

     Marion grabbed it as it hit the table, opened it up and placed it in front of her. With her mind now focused on the letter, she read, “Dear Mr. and Mrs. Grinnell, as a representative of Security Pacific’s Mortgage and Loan Department, I am sad to inform you that since you have defaulted on your mortgage for three months, under the guidelines of the mortgage contract you entered into, we must now foreclose on your home. You will need to vacate the premises within thirty days from today, October 20, 2011.”

     Howard began to speak, but stopped before uttering a word. He had a weird look on his face and then a gleam in his eyes. The clouds seemed to have cleared from his mind. “Marion!” he exclaimed. “Today is October 20, 2018, and we’ve been living in our Golden Age Assisted Living and Memory Care Apartment for seven years. We don’t own a house anymore.”

     Marion smiled. “Let’s play Gin Rummy.”

Copyright © 2019 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Drifting into the depths of memory loss is often harder on loved ones, than it is on the one whose memory is slipping away.

When a husband loses his wife to the “ghosts” that have taken over her mind, the power of love does not diminish, as . . .

Time Takes Its Toll

She sits in the sandbox, pushing the sand in a circular motion.

Her head bent to her chest, she appears oblivious to the world around her.

She runs the sand through her fingers, like a river’s waters being released

     from a dam,

As tears flow from her cloudy blue eyes.

Her long gray hair blows in the gentle wind, like many pixies dancing to

     nature’s tune.

I look at her, the love of my life, the woman I married.

I watch her struggling to make sense of a life slipping away,

And there is nothing I can do but cry with her.

My eyes mist over, I think of the life we had and the love we shared.

She smiles—a glimpse of the past—realizing I am standing there.

Tempted to speak, I hold my tongue,

For I know no reply will be forthcoming.

The sands of time have wrested her from my embrace,

But not from my heart, which wishes for a miracle that will never come.

She has returned to a simpler time of life and lives in the moment,

Her past lost to the demon possessing her mind.

I slip into the box beside her, my eyes meet hers,

Empty eyes, a tunnel into a lost spirit—the magic gone.

I reach for her now limp hand and press it close to my chest.

I long for the day she loved me, but I never loved her more than I do today.

Copyright © 2016 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Celebrate the gifts you receive, for they can be lost all too soon. Embrace them and value them.

Remember the sacrifices made to keep our land free and prosperous, and never lose sight of what it meant to be . . .

Brothers In Arms

It has been a long time since I played your tune and you played mine.

Young and free then, we had no cares and just enjoyed life.

With trouble distant, good fortune abounded.

I recall those splendid moments and cherish the memories.

Youth—a time of growth and exploration.

We flourished in each other’s successes and basked in each other’s love.

Brothers, striving to achieve life’s dreams, nothing could come between us.

We had a connection so rare, others could not understand.

But times changed and destiny took you from me—

Lost to the brutality of war and the passage of time.

Forced to go our separate ways, we traveled separate roads.

Memories have not faded, but life without you has never been the same.

As I aged, the sadness of your loss has lingered.

However, as my time nears, I revel in the thought of an eternity with you.

In time, we will be together again.

And once more, I will play your tune and you will play mine.

Postscript: 

The music played and remembrances flourished as warmth pervaded the   

     gathering at the cemetery.

A lifetime of success echoed in a stirring eulogy about the greatness of a    

     man known as a leader and friend.

However, the friends that gathered could not compare to the one he lost to 

     a war over fifty years ago.

But now he, too, has left this earth to spend eternity with his brother in        

     arms. And once again, each will play the other’s tune.

Copyright © 2015 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Marriage is complicated and you have to work hard to make it work. At times, the road traveled can be rough and you may be lured off the path.

As such, you may find yourself deviating from the vows you took during your wedding ceremony. Doing this can lead to unexpected consequences, as depicted in . . .

Hello

Hello.

You are?

I may be.

But I’m not sure.

I wish I could be.

The opportunity turns me on, but . . .

I’m still not certain I should.

It troubles me I can’t make a decision.

Hello.

We are?

I think so.

I do like you.

Let’s not move too fast.

We can talk about it later.

I’m sure we can figure it out.

I have to go, someone is beeping in.

Hello.

You again.

Be patient, please.

My life is complicated.

Yes, I wear a ring.

I’ve been married over ten years.

I’m not sure what’s going to happen.

I told you . . . I don’t know the answer.

Hello.

What now?

It may be.

But I’m not sure.

We only met last month.

Yes, I do find you attractive.

I explained to you, we must move slowly.

I have two young children to think about.

Hello.

We are.

Yes, I agree.

I know we can.

Working together, we can find . . .

Sure, a way to make this work.

Meet, as soon as possible, but where?

Yeah, the motel coffee shop works for me.

Hello.

Sit down.

Relax, you’re shaking.

Waitress, bring some coffee.

Drink, it will calm you.

We knew this wouldn’t be easy.

Yes, I still want this to continue.

However, I can’t let my wife find out.

Hello.

But what?

Okay, I’m listening.

I know you’re confused.

But this is very complicated.

I’ve got to do it right.

Yes, our motel liaison was quite nice.

And I do have strong feelings for you.

Hello.

No answer.

The answer machine.

We need to talk.

I’m home—call me soon.

Why didn’t she answer the phone?

She said she’d be home all day.

What I have to tell her is critical.

Hello.

Four o’clock.

Yes, she’s there.

I want to talk.

Don’t cry; please control yourself.

I have something important to say.

No, it’s not about breaking up, but . . .

Let me speak, stop the tantrum and listen.

Hello.

Me again.

Don’t hang up.

Please listen to me.

I can’t leave my wife.

She found out about our relationship.

But I don’t want to lose you.

I need you—meet me at the motel.

Hello.

(Opens Door)

Who are you?

A gun! Don’t shoot.

I’m bleeding—can’t breathe.

Is it you behind the mask?

We can still be together.

Why, you’re not her—uhhh, you’re my wife.

Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello.

Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello.

Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello.

Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello.

Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello.

Hello. Hello. Hello.

Hello. Hello.

Hell . . .

Copyright © 2017 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Life is costly. We pay for everything—the heating and cooling of our homes, the water we drink and use to keep our gardens blooming, and the gas and electricity we depend on to live comfortably.

And the government tries to enforce restrictions on how much of these resources we can use. Its span of control continues to grow and can become overwhelming. But how far can it go? We will see in . . .

Air Ration

     We finished eating a wonderful dinner with our friends, Pam and James Nelson. My wife, Mindy, had outdone herself. The Veal Marsala brought back memories of our trip to Italy. And I deserve some credit, too. After all, I did slice the sourdough bread.

     We retreated to the living room for some conversation and relaxation. I sat down on our plush, brown leather chair and propped my feet up on the matching ottoman. Looking out the large picture window, I could see the sun dipping behind the distant, beautiful green hillside. Then my eyes drifted toward the others. Mindy, perched on the other ottoman alongside the oak coffee table across from the couch, had a pleased look on her face and appeared to be relishing her dinner triumph. Pam and James reclined on our overstuffed sofa.   

     I stared at James. He looked perplexed.

     “Matt, did you get your air bill?” he asked.

     “Yeah, I think so, but I haven’t had time to look at it. Is there a problem?”

     “Well, ours went up one hundred sixty-three dollars from last month’s bill.”

     “Did you check the meter to see if it was working right?”

     “Sure did. Even ran the test the manual suggests, if we think something’s wrong. All indicators showed the system working as it should.”

     “Hmm. Maybe you should follow up with the company.”

     “Hell, no! You want me to spend the better part of my day trying to get through that bureaucratic nightmare? They keep you on hold for hours. And when you do get a live person on the line, you’ll be told to check the meter and refer to the manual.”

     “Give me a minute. I’ll go get my bill and see if I got a similar increase.”

     I got up, stretched, and made my way to the den. A staggering pile of papers sat on my desk. I leafed through them and found this month’s statement from the Air Ration Agency, a government controlled air-monitoring service. I tore open the envelope. To my amazement and disgust, our bill was huge. I opened the file cabinet alongside the desk to find last month’s statement. Grabbing it, I tossed it on the desk next to the current bill. “There’s got to be a mistake,” I screamed.

     Clutching the two invoices, I raced back to the living room. I caught my breath and began to speak. But before I could get the words out, James blurted, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

     “If you mean, it looks like my heart stopped, you may be right. The damn bills gone up one hundred ninety-two dollars—one hundred ninety-two dollars. That’s insane.”

     ‘What do you think we should do?” James queried.

     “Beats me. Who could’ve imagined the government would resort to monitoring our air intake inside our homes, in the first place? Sometimes I walk around trying to hold my breath to keep costs down. I guess this month Mindy and I breathed in too much of the contaminated substance we call air. Must’ve been when we made love the other night.”

     “Don’t go there,” Mindy admonished.

     “But I’m trying to make a point.”

     “Well, make your point some other way. Leave what happens in our bedroom out of it.”

     “What’re they going to think of next to raise revenue?” I lamented. “At least we can breathe all the air we want outdoors.”

     “Then be happy. All you guys do is complain about things you can’t control,” Pam shouted.

     James bemoaned, “The controls keep getting worse. If we sit and do nothing, they’ll keep taking away our freedoms.”

     “Aw come on,” Mindy shrieked. “We’re already being charged for heating and cooling the air. So what’s so wrong with charging for the air itself?”

     “Well, we’re not made of money. My salary’s been frozen for two years,” I said with regret.

     “Let’s change the subject,” Pam declared. “So what do you think about this global warming thing?”

     James shook his head. “Leave it my wife to muddy the waters even more than they are.”

     “Hey, let’s play Hand ‘n Foot,” I suggested, hoping to turn our evening in a more positive direction.

     “Good, cards sounds like a great idea,” James chimed in.    

     And so, we didn’t talk about the air bill the rest of the evening. The card game created a great diversion. James and I beat the women by over 10,000 points—and we rubbed it in until it hurt.

     After Pam and James left, Mindy and I cleared the snacks from the kitchen table. The bill kept nagging at me. So, I brought it up again. “You know, we shouldn’t take this crap anymore.”

     “What crap?” Mindy asked.

     “The increase in the air bill.”

     “Oh, come on, Matt. Drop it already. You make a good salary. You can pay the bill.”

     “But . . .”

     “But, nothing. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

     And so we didn’t. However, I couldn’t shake the thought from my mind that our cherished government planned to impose more regulations on us.

     After washing up, I crawled into bed, kissed Mindy, and rolled over. I had a hard time getting to sleep. With my head still cluttered with the evening’s conversation, I couldn’t reach closure. As I drifted off, the night disappeared into a restless sea of confusion. And then, I couldn’t believe the next day, October 20, had arrived. When I got to work, people seemed to be yelling at one another. The deafening noise level shook me to the core.

     “Did you hear the news?” Marissa squealed.

     “What news?”

     “Don’t you listen to the radio on the way to work?”

     “Not this morning. So tell me what you’re talking about, Marissa.”

     “The new air policy.”

     “Oh, you mean the raise we got in our air bill. I already know about it. I saw this month’s statement.”

     “No, Matt. That’s old news.”

     “So, what’s the latest?”

     “Last night President Ventura signed into law the bill to monitor our air intake outside our homes.”

     “How in God’s name are they going to do that?” I grimaced.

     “Well, we’ll find out at ten this morning. The world is being put on hold so we can listen to President Ventura’s pronouncement to the country. Everything’s been ordered to stop.”

     “They can’t stop everything.”

     “Maybe not. But they’re going to try. The boss has invited us to meet in the conference room to listen to the president’s message. However, this is more a command performance than an invitation.”

     I went to my desk and pondered what the message from the president might be. I got on the computer and tried to Google the speech announcement—but found nothing significant. This made me anxious.

     At ten minutes to ten, I made my way to the large conference room on the east side of the office complex. Staff shuffled into the room. Chairs were set up facing the seventy-two inch flat screen TV. By the time I sat down, it appeared every seat in the room would be occupied.   

     The boss, John Reiner, our property management company’s Chief Executive Officer (CEO), moved to the front of the room and motioned to those still standing to be seated. Then he spoke with authority and a sense of caution, “All companies, both big and small, have been asked to convene their employees to hear this very important message from the president. We’ve been advised to tell you to keep your calm during the presentation. Let the president explain the new air intake regulations that will be put into place, and how they'll be enforced. After his address, the screen will become interactive and questions may be posed to the president. At this time, make yourself comfortable. The presentation will began in four minutes. Let’s all approach this with an open mind.”

     CEO Reiner left the front of the room and went to a section in the back, where he sat with the company’s executive board and other senior management. With one minute to go, an eerie stillness fell upon the room. “What the crap is the president going to say?” I whispered aloud.

     Then the lights in the room dimmed and the TV screen lit up. President Ventura stood stone-faced before us and spoke, “My fellow citizens, it is with a heavy heart I must advise you our dire economic situation, coupled with the world populations' exploitation of the air we breathe, has caused the community of world leaders to come to an agreement on a universal measure to raise funds and to restrict the use and abuse of our air.”

     The president went on and on about the regulations to be imposed on companies and administered by regional Air Ration Agency offices. He bemoaned company ineffectiveness in controlling air pollutants. I’d heard versions of his rhetoric day in and day out from other government officials over the past twenty years. I began to tune him out, when the emphasis shifted to the individual . . . me. Shaken back to reality, I began to pay attention.

     “And now I must tell you how your lives will be affected by the new regulations. While the air inside your homes has been monitored and you’ve had to pay for excessive use, you still have had the freedom to breathe the air outside your home with no restrictions. This will now change,” he stated.

     I could hear moaning throughout the audience. I couldn’t imagine the next words to come out of the president’s mouth, but I anticipated the worst. And the worst spewed forth.

      “A patch has been developed that you will be required to wear on the back of your right hand,” the president stated. “This patch has the ability to monitor air intake and circulation through the bloodstream. Under the auspices of Air Ration Agency regional offices, air inspectors, armed with detector wands, will be empowered to move through the streets outside your homes, workplaces, and other buildings. If these wands, when aimed at the patch, indicate you are consuming too much air, the inspector has the right to cite you for abusive air use. For first offenses, fines will be assessed. For more serious abuses of air use, you may be arrested and charged with a misdemeanor breathing crime. If the abuse continues, the charge could be elevated to a felony and you might have to serve jail time.”

     What got to me was the ultimate power the inspectors had. If they felt an individual’s abuse of his or her breathing rights produced a detrimental effect on society, by focusing the wand on the patch and pushing the trigger, all air flow throughout the body would stop, causing the target to fall motionless to the ground.

     The president’s presentation ended amid groans and moans from my fellow workers. And then a strange and unexpected thing happened. The screen became interactive and a voice resonated above the groaning. “Before we entertain questions, please stick out your right hand.” Uniformed air inspectors then passed through the crowd affixing patches to the top of our hands.

     Having received the patch, I began to suck in air at an amazing rate trying to ward off the anxiety welling up inside me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw an inspector point the wand in my direction and pull the trigger. The room became silent, as I fell with a thud to the ground.

     The next thing I knew, a telephone began ringing. I opened my eyes and found myself at home in bed. I grabbed the phone from the nightstand and whispered, “Hello.”

     “Matt, this is Marissa. I’ve got to tell you about what’s going on at the office.”

     “You mean after the inspector zapped me yesterday and somebody brought me home?”

     “What are you talking about? You weren’t here yesterday. Remember, you spent the day with a client off-site?”

     “No, that was the day before, the nineteenth. I was zapped on the twentieth.”

     “But today is the twentieth. You’ve lost me. Anyway, I’ve got to get back to work. I came in early to get ready for the big address on air rationing the President of the United States is giving at ten. I wanted to give you a heads up.”

     “Huh, I’ve been there and done that.”

     “Matt, I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about, but you need to make sure you’re at the presentation. I’ve got to go. Bye.”

     I hung up the phone and sat on the side of the bed staring into space. Had it all been a weird dream? Or was I being warned, so I’d be able to protect myself from the fate I’d soon experience? When I arrived at the office, I became involved in an instant replay of events I’d already encountered. Only this time, I didn’t plan to end up in a heap on the ground.

Copyright © 2012 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Seeing is believing. But at times, our mind distorts what we see, so it becomes what we want to see and not reality.

And a traumatic life experience can color our perception of what is happening around us. When this occurs, it can leave us . . .

More Confused Then Ever

    The Temple Island Hospital lobby bustled with people. I clutched the medication I’d picked up from the pharmacy and made my way toward the front doors. As my eyes scanned the rotunda, they focused on a woman headed in the same direction.

    Seeing me staring at her, she inquired in a somewhat abrasive tone, “What are you looking at?”       

    “You,” I replied.

    “Me? Can’t you find something better to do?”

    “What’s better than looking at a beautiful woman?”

    She blushed and bent her head. Her eyes surveyed her legs decorated in heavy metal braces. She wobbled on her cane. “You’ve got to be kidding. I’m an old, broken lady.”

    “Old? You couldn’t be more than sixty-five.”

    “You’re being very generous.”

    “How generous?” I queried.

    “Let’s just say you missed the mark by a few years, young man.”

    “Are you being facetious? Or do you just have poor eyesight? Nobody’s called me a young man in a very long time.”

    “Well, maybe you should look at yourself in a mirror. You’re quite attractive. Your wife is a lucky woman.”

    “Oh, no. I’m not married. My wife died six years ago.”

    “I’m sorry to hear that.”

     “Don’t be sorry. She was sick for a long time. She fought cancer for almost eleven years. Her death was a blessing.”

     “That’s so sad. It must’ve been hard on you. I don’t know if I could’ve handled that.”

     “I didn’t handle it well. I fell apart. I felt so alone. Had to seek professional counseling. Didn’t know if I wanted to go on. My life seemed so empty.”

     “And now? Have things gotten any better?”

     “Yes, I’ve met you.”

     “Oh, stop! You can’t be serious.”

     “But I am being serious. We’ve been together for just a few minutes and this is the most meaningful conversation I’ve had in years. Aside from my therapist, that is.”

     “Well, I guess I should feel good you are able to talk to me. Oh, my, look at the time. I’ve got to be going,” she declared.

     “But why? I’m just getting to know you.”

     “Maybe we’ll run into each other again some time. I’m a volunteer here at the hospital gift shop . . . every Tuesday and Thursday, 9 am to noon, for the past twelve years.”

     “Are you single?”

     “That’s getting a bit personal.”

     “Just curious, I guess. As I mentioned before, you are quite attractive.”

     “That’s very kind of you to say, but I’m alone and not interested in a relationship.”

     “Why not?”

     “Can’t you see? I’m handicapped, for God’s sake.”

     “Aren’t we all, in one way or another?”

     “Well, yes, you’re probably right. But why me? There are so many other eligible women around who’d give their right arm to be with a man like you.”

     “So you do find me appealing.”

     “I didn’t say that.”

     “Yes you did. May I have your phone number?”

     “What?”

     “Your phone number. I’d like to call you some time.”

     “Okay. But don’t call unless you have an emergency and need someone to talk to.” She took a pen from her skirt pocket, wrote her number on a small piece of paper, and handed it to me.

     “What about a date?”

     “I don’t do dates,” she responded, a bit irritated.

     “Not even with a man who finds you irresistible?”

     “Now stop. Call me if you have to. But don’t get your hopes up about anything more than another chat. Now, I’m going. Good-bye.”

     “But I don’t know your name,” I shouted.

     “It’s on the paper with my number,” she yelled back.

     “Hey, I’m Ira . . . Ira Shelton.”

     “Good-bye, Ira,” she chanted and disappeared through the lobby doors of the hospital.

     I looked down at the paper I held in my hand. Her name, scribbled on its surface, jumped out at me—Miriam Rosen. “Miriam Rosen,” I muttered.

     I tucked the paper into my pants pocket, exited through the front doors, and climbed the stairs to the parking lot. Opening the door of my red Pontiac Firebird, I slid in, pulled the seat belt around me, started the engine, and drove out of the lot onto Fifth Street. I had no idea why I fixated on this Miriam person. What made her so special puzzled me.

     As I entered the freeway onramp, my mind drifted and I lost control of the car. It veered to the right and then the left, as it bounded onto the freeway, crossing in front of the heavy flow of traffic and smashing into the center guardrail. My head hit the steering wheel and I blacked out.

     When I awoke, I found myself in a hospital bed with my head bandaged and most of my body throbbing. Through fuzzy eyes, I saw an attractive nurse staring at me.

     “Welcome back, Mr. Shelton,” she purred.

     “Back? Back from where?” I queried.

     “You’ve been in a coma for four days. You’ve got a pretty large bump on your head. We were worried about you.”

     “Am I going to die?”

     “Oh my, you were never going to die. We were just worried about how bad the head trauma was. But now that you’re talking to me, I think you’ll be fine. The doctor said the CT scan didn’t indicate major damage. However, he will have to examine you again before we can be sure everything is all right. If it is, you can then be released."

     “Nurse, do you know Miriam, the lady who works in the gift store?”

     “Why, yes. She’s been a fixture in that place for over ten years. She’s a really nice lady. Why do you ask?”

     “I met her the day of my accident. I enjoyed our brief discussion and wanted to get to know her better.”

     “I’m sure she’d be willing to drop by after her shift ends at noon. She visits patients all the time. Since the doctor won’t be in until one, I’ll ask her to come by.”

     “I really respect her for working as a volunteer. You know, with her handicap, and all.”

     “Handicap? What handicap?”

     “The braces on her legs must make it awfully hard for her to get around.”

     “Braces on her legs? Either you’re thinking of the wrong person or that hit on the head you got caused problems the doctor will need to address with you.”

     “But you did say there was a Miriam who worked in the gift shop. Didn’t you?” I asked.

     “I did. But she’s a robust woman in her early seventies and she’s not handicapped. For heavens sake, she runs marathons.”

     “Is there someone else working in the gift shop who wears braces on her legs?”

     “No, I don’t think so.”

     “Is this just my mind playing tricks on me because of the accident?”

     “I don’t know,” the nurse murmured. “You’ll have to ask the doctor.”

     “You said you would ask Miriam to come by after her shift. Could you do it now? I have to see her. I swear I’m not delusional.”

     “Okay, I’m due for a break. I’ll go down and see if she can.”

     I didn’t know what to make of all of this. I knew I’d met this woman. At least I thought I had. But did I? Then my eyes became heavy and I dozed off.

     “Ira, it’s Miriam. Miriam Rosen from the gift shop,” a voice whispered.

     A beautiful woman stood at the foot of the bed. Her silver hair flowed about her shoulders. Her smile lit me up . . . warmth ran through my body. Words could not describe how I felt. I tried to sit up to look at her legs, but with the bed flat, it was a challenge I wasn’t up to.

     “Don’t try to get up, Ira.”

     “How are your legs?” I mumbled.

     “My legs?” she said, surprised by the question.

     “The braces on them.”

     “Braces? What are you talking about?”

     “You were wearing braces when we first met. Weren’t you?”

     “First met? This is the only time I’ve ever seen you.”

     “But you look exactly like the woman I spoke to in the lobby just before my accident.”

     “I’m not sure what to say,” she murmured.

     Then a thought ran through my mind, and I spouted, “Where are my pants?”

     “I’ll look for them,” she said.

     She scanned the room and saw them on a hanger in the open closet area. She got them and handed them to me. I reached into the pocket and removed a crushed piece of paper. I flattened it out and read, “555-530-2300 . . . Miriam Rosen.”

     Then a soft voice spoke to me. “Wake up, Ira.” The nurse smiled. “The doctor will be in to see you in a few minutes. You need to be alert so he can assess your condition and decide when you can be discharged.”

     “Huh? Where’s Miriam?” I grumbled.

     “Oh, she couldn’t make it today. Possibly tomorrow, if you’re still here.”

     “But she was here. I spoke to her. Didn’t I?” I stuttered.

     “No, you couldn’t have,” the nurse stated with conviction. When I came into the room, you were sound asleep. Nobody else was here.”

     “My pants. Where are they?”

     “On the hanger in the closet. Where they’ve been since you were admitted.”

     “But that can’t be. They were on the bed.” Trembling, I just stared at her. For now, I was more confused than ever.

Copyright © 2016 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.