A WHILE BACK, I took a course in Flash Fiction with the Hugo House here in Seattle. This assignment was to remain <850 words and focus on descriptive language. I chose to write a piece focusing on the process of grieving someone who is still alive, but fading.
He loves the Sunday crossword, but he never touches it on Sundays. He saves these special treats for Monday mornings, when he is greeted at their stained wooden coffee table by a fresh brewed mug of coffee, an unrolled newspaper flipped to his favorite page, and a kiss. There’s always a rotation of mugs throughout the week, but he typically starts out the week with his favorite. Since their second year of marriage, it’s been the green speckled camper’s mug. It’s the last surviving piece from a battered, well-loved collection of dented metal cookware collected during the nomadic first years of their joyous love affair.
She usually greets him in her gentle, breathy way after he’s tackled the first few clues. Occasionally, more often than he notices, she tiptoes by and sneaks a peek over his shoulder. He’s only aware of this behavior when he catches her whispering under her breath one morning while refilling his half-empty mug with fresh, hot brew. He sighs. His lips form a loving crooked smile, and he quickly fills in the small white boxes with the answer to a clue that has evaded him all morning.
Every day, year by year, his routine embeds itself comfortably into their lives. From early morning shifts to 9 to 5 simplicity, the chaotic thuds of toddler stumbles to the reluctant scuds of teen angst, the coffee is always tolerably hot and the crossword tantalizingly tricky.
Within a few decades, the house quiets down. He finally gets to complete his puzzles in peace again. Before long, he’s rightfully earned a late start in the mornings (not that he never deserved it before). No more early morning crosswords and no more deadlines – what a life he’s sculpted! The crosswords are more thoroughly complete now, and he often completes the Monday, Tuesday – hell! – even the Friday puzzles if he’s up to it. This life is beautiful, and he finally allows his aching bones a much-needed rest.
He’s back to Sunday puzzles only again. She noticed a few months back that his handwriting had changed. Something has shifted within his gaze – like he’s trying to recall the details of a long-forgotten anecdote. She senses it’s more than foggy, morning brain, though she is wary of confronting her aging love with these growing concerns. She kisses him lightly on his furrowed brow and convinces herself to move on from these lingering worries.
Time passes and there are more blanks than ever on the page. The margins begin to fill with doodles. He often asks her to read the clues to him and, concerned, she takes him to the optometrist. He’s rewarded with a new pair of readers alongside a polished new set of concerning behaviors.
He’s irritable. He doesn’t like coffee anymore. He often stares at the crossword all morning before he stands, grinds the chair across the linoleum floor, and retreats to bed.
A pile of newspaper gathers inside the front entrance of their memory-filled home. Far too quickly, a smattering of neatly banded papers begins to form a colorless bouquet. Unlike flowers, the members of this bouquet don’t wilt, but their presence alone ages her.
When she brings him home after his most recent medically induced hiatus, he doesn’t even glance at the coffee table on his way to bed. She tries not to think about the seven papers the pair staggered past on their way through the front door.
He doesn’t get out of bed in the mornings anymore.
He doesn’t remember her name most days.
Do you think he remembers how much he loves to read?
This morning there’s a blank Sunday crossword sat neatly beside an empty bespeckled forest green coffee mug. An old pen scrounged from the junk drawer nestled beside the wooden coat rack. A woman whispering memories of stolen crossword clues under her breath as she goes about her morning routine – alone.
pro-whimsy agenda 