101 Words

I was the second of three to be born; the only winter baby. Her guinea pig, always on hand for taste-testing new recipes before family dinners. The last to remain at home while the eldest and youngest found marriage and families of their own. Hockey nights in Canada shared over a bowl of popcorn, duets in the kitchen to a crooning Conway Twitty, and giggle-filled movie nights.

Twenty-three of 29 years spent under the same roof while her other sons could hardly be bothered to come home. And still when the dementia stole her moments, mine was the first name forgotten.

In a small seaside town, I stop outside a bookshop. Through the window, one catches my eye: it’s jay-bird blue and has your name on it.

Later, while my husband sleeps off the beers from lunch, I go back. I pick up the book, read the author information. There’s no photo, but I don’t doubt it’s you.

“Those are signed copies,” the bookseller says. “Would you like one?”

“My husband says I have too many books already.”

I don’t read the dedication before returning it to the display. I’m too afraid the words are meant for me. Too afraid they aren’t.

“Don’t move a muscle!” the man in the woolly balaclava shouts, defying years of hushed, reverent tones in the bank.

Startled, your arms wave spasmodically. The gun in his hand goes off. A puff of gas. The smell of cordite. A percussive bang. Searing heat.

Blackness.

And then, maddening blips, burps, and flashes of light until…a pattern emerges. Ha-kussssh.

“Good morning!”

She is a vibrant, perky, and pesky wasp you cannot see. Cannot feel her wet sponge eroding your dignity. No scent passes your olfactory nerves. Ha-kussssh.

You would grin and bear it, Ha-kussssh, but you cannot move a muscle.

“Just one last question, Mr. Khan. We’ve covered the unification of the Mongol tribes, developing the Silk Road, controlling huge areas of the world as your conquering armies dominated parts of Eastern Europe, the Middle East, and, of course, Asia.

“However, it would seem that history may remember you most for your unmerciful slaughter of millions of innocent people, and the annexation of their lands. Tell me, is there a line somewhere in your mind where you will stand and be satisfied that you have achieved all of your wildest dreams?”

Genghis thought for several minutes and then said, “the horizon.”

Stood up by her forgetful date, Maggie shrugged off the disappointment and drove to the nearby cemetery.

She parked in a section with the fewest signs of recent visitors.

She knew no one here, but she walked slowly, stooping to browse headstones as though looking for a lost friend.

It was the stones crowded by creeping weeds, covered in months of dried mower clippings with only one name inscribed that drew her in for a closer look.

Kneeling, Maggie read each inscription aloud, occasionally tripping over pronunciations, as she pulled weeds and wiped each neglected marker until the marble shined.

Whenever Fido is up to trouble, he hides in the living room corner. When walking time arrived, that’s where I found him.

“Fido, what are you doing?”

The Labrador didn’t budge. Thinking he was up to something, I went over and tapped his head. Fido jumped and faced me with guilty blue eyes and puffy cheeks. Something was in his mouth. Since he wouldn’t open it willingly, I scratched his nose. His sneeze sent a pair of dentures flying into Grandma’s chair. I was still staring at them when I heard Grandpa call from upstairs, “Alex, have you seen my dentures?”

I remember the warmth of her hand in mine as we sat together on her front porch. The sun set behind the Rocky Mountains. She said, “I love you.” I said, “I love you, too.” Then I said, “I want to become a priest.” She said, “You’re a good man.”

I cried as I let go of her hand, knowing good men, ordained men, keep their promises.

I saw her next, sitting on the grass in front of our Alma Mater. She was breastfeeding her daughter. I said, “I’ve been unfaithful, and I’m leaving the priesthood.”

She said, “Unfaithful to who?”