101 Words

Everyone hoards something.

Pops left Mum. She kept books on his side of the bed to forget him. In time, hardbacks spilled onto the floor of her bedroom. Paperbacks cluttered the house. She had no hope of erasing him from her mind.

My apartment is tidy—an organized kitchen, an orderly bedroom. I sit on the only chair of my spotless den, and pull a dustless photo album onto my lap. On each picture, I trace the faces of my adorable grandchildren. Or maybe they’re my children. I’m not sure.

Alzheimer’s takes my memory. Everyone hoards. I hope to hoard memories.

While getting ready for the party, my wife made me change my bandhgala.

“Don’t repeat your outfits so quickly,” she reasoned.

“But you went for Sodhi’s anniversary wearing that same saree,” I countered.

“The invitees are not common. Moreover, Mrs. Sodhi told me she’s not coming today,” she answered, supremely confident.

Her sartorial sense had always impressed me.

On reaching the venue, the hosts greeted us warmly.

Just as we were slipping into the party mood, we heard a familiar voice, “Hello Mrs. Pant. Isn’t it wonderful to meet again so soon?”

And there was Mrs. Sodhi at her radiant best.

Finally. The last accomplice has died. All those years of sharing the secret has come to an end. The secret is now mine and mine alone. I know the burden will be heavy but feel I will be strong enough to carry the load. I hope to one day sleep sounder and awaken more refreshed, but that has yet to be determined. Everyone involved in the secret knew it never should have happened, yet it did. And there is nothing to temper that reality. The secret may well die when I die, but the shame will follow me to the grave.

Stu had reached the inevitable point in his marriage where he found himself asking, What the fuck is wrong with us?

He began searching for ways to rid himself of tension in his marriage. If he and Jean could just escape the angry buzz of New York City for an hour or two, they would find their way back to one another.

“I think we should go hiking this weekend,” he said to Jean over dinner one evening. “This guy at work told me about this thing called geocaching where…”

“I know what geocaching is,” Jean replied without looking up.

I dream of Yawm alfasl; the unending night pregnant with untold horrors. A lifeless moon eclipsed by blackened skies. Ravaging flood and terrible thunderstorms. Earth torn open from powerful underground quakes. Folk speak of ages past; of a once glittering sun and scintillating stars. We take to the mountains and caves, like Moses’s kindred in the beginning.

I awake in a cold sweat trembling from fear and exhaustion. There’s movement in the room; impossible to tell whether man or beast. I lay still till Nurse comes in, carrying a tray of injections. Maybe she’d be kind and unlock my chains today.

“Sorry, Dad.”

His filmy eyes stare straight ahead.

“The doctor says no surgery. Too risky.”

She sets the coffee cup at his fingertips. No way she’s telling him the truth: too great a risk. In fact, the doctor has cleared him to have the surgery. Now, she often sneaks out and he never even knows. Sight restored, she knows he’ll forbid her from seeing her lover.

Raising his cup, he suppresses a smile. Sight restored, she’ll move out, live her own life, and he’ll be lonely again. A few brown splashes stain the tablecloth. Indeed, surgery is too great a risk.