101 Words

“It was you!” Henry pointed a skeletal finger at the man. In a wall of people rushing for platform two, Jack halted.

“Excuse me?” Jack met the sick man’s eyes.

Henry’s voice sounded thick with phlegm. “Last Tuesday at 4:24, you coughed without covering your mouth.”

From within his black trench coat Henry pulled a store-bought flumeter. Shaped like an oval belt buckle, its tip glowed bright red.

“Citizen’s arrest!”

Thunder rolled overhead. Passers-by stopped, turning scornful glances on Jack. Rain pelted their umbrellas.

Caught—Jack sank to his knees. Suddenly, uniformed men fell upon him, clapping handcuffs around his wrists.

She sat on the chair opposite him, shaking her sippy cup joyfully. Spit dribbled down her chin, but she didn’t care.

“Here comes the aeroplane.” He tried to muster a smile, waving a spoon with mashed peas in front of her.

She looked at him for a moment, mumbled something incoherent and smacked his hand away with her tiny own. Fair enough, mashed peas were disgusting.

The next day, he returned. But with a scrapbook this time. He flipped it open, pausing at a photo of his wedding day.

“Who’s this?” he asked her. Praying…hoping…his wife remembered.

She didn’t.

The smiling woman presented a tray.

My mother, 96, fresh from the beauty shop and wearing pearls, waved it away. “I’ll have a bourbon and water, please.”

“Excuse me?”

“Bourbon and water. First the ice, then bourbon, then water.”

“I know what bourbon and water is, sweetie.”

My mother turned to me and raised her right eyebrow. Any of her children will tell you this meant trouble. Only my father called her sweetie.

“Please tell that cocktail waitress what I want and order yourself something.”

I dreaded disobeying Mom, but our cocktail waitress was her caregiver and her tray held meds.

I’ve always lived in confinement.

Mom hasn’t, though. She told me about ‘out there.’ There are no walls.  Warm food, flowing water, everyone goes wherever they please. It is dangerous, but free.

Here, Mom says, there’s no danger. We’re alone except for the two-legged creatures. They never crossed the water—until yesterday.  I’ve never shared space with anyone but Mom. I got scared and cried.

Mom bit the creature. That’s how she faced danger ‘out there.’

Then the one called ‘Zookeeper’ came and killed her with a loud stick.

Mom was wrong. It’s dangerous here. I want to live out there.

He pressed send. The photo of his disastrous chicken risotto zoomed into cyberspace. ‘Not sure even you’d eat this!’ he added, plus two laughing emojis.

The next morning he cautiously checked again. No reply. He sent a good morning GIF of a cute kitten and the usual ‘Love you’ and purple heart.

After a busy day back at work, he checked again. Nothing. Messaging ‘Miss you xx,’ he set off for his first appointment.

Awkwardly perched on the grief counselor’s hard leather chair, he felt the weight of his phone in his pocket. He pondered whether to mention his one-sided conversations.

We descend into the deep chill of the canyon, our differences set aside. We push his mother’s wheelchair onto the bridge and help her stand, our arms around her gently for support. We silently hand her the urn.

Suddenly, his ash spirals up on the icy currents, coating us all.

Everyone freezes.

I laugh, shattering the stillness.

Shock transforms to mirth, infecting us all. Instantly united, we giggle as we pat him from each other’s clothes and hair, our tears clearing tracks down our faces.

Ghosts of his making, we gather together, and toss the rest of him over the rail.