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.