1/19/09 - Thanks For The Memories

On his 98th birthday he wakes up in the middle of the night to eerie silence. He gets up, puts his slippers on and by the light of the moon begins his day. Over the many years he has developed many routines with which to live his life, but today is different. He showers early, with warm water, and brushes his teeth with cold water, same as everyday, careful to reach each tooth, but instead of neatly placing his toothbrush back into it's assigned spot on the porcelain plate, he leaves it teetering on the sink. He gets dressed, not his usual fashion, but a black tee shirt and comfortable pants, for breakfast he makes two eggs with salt, not minding his cholesterol or checking his blood pressure, and serves them with cheese and regular toast not the whole grain garbage he's made to eat everyday, washing it all down with apple juice which contains too much sugar. He watches television instead of tending to his garden or reading his newspaper, it is the afternoon now, and his family has come over to celebrate, carefully but surely he enjoys his party, eats his cake, two pieces this year, and opens the few gifts he is sure were bought last minute. When they leave he makes his way into his room, and carefully looks under the bed for a box he has not opened in some many years. Placing it on his bed he gets dressed for bed and settles himself in, retrieving from within the box a leather bound book, wrinkled and dusty with age, as he himself is, he opens it and begins to read. The book is filed with page after page of memories he has written down over the years for a day like today when he might have trouble remembering. His first bicycle, his first car, his parents anniversary, his highschool sweetheart, all living away in the words captured within his self written novel. Memories return to him as vivid as the day the occurred, and he laughs here, and sheds tears there, but in the end, he is reminded in his own scroll, that although life has been good and it has been cruel, his best memories were made with the most special person in his life, and just after the last words he has written, occupying its very own space in the middle of its very own page are words not written in his writing, but in hers, "Thanks For The Memories". And with that, he turns off the light after glancing at her picture one last time, lays down in the bed he has slept in all these years, and closes his eyes one last time before he can be with her again.