Remember When

Story By Steven McKenney Illustration by Allison Juliana

He sat by the window, pipe in hand, and looked across the Susquehanna River. A few cyclists and a handful of joggers were out this morning; an exercise path ran along the eastern shore. Misguided lemmings trying to stay young and maintain their health, he assumed. Idiots, he thought, raised the pipe to his mouth, and drew in applescented smoke.

Bruised clouds drifted in, filling the sky until not even a sliver of blue remained. He knew today would be cold. The day just had that intangible look. Snow would not be a surprise to him either. He almost expected it. Like the clouds pushed along by invisible air currents, the afterlife was drifting closer to him as well. And, not for the first time this winter, he wondered if he would live to see winter’s death.

“Coming soon?” he questioned aloud. The empty room offered no reply, not even an echo’s trace.

“Worry not, my friend, your time draws near. I have not forgotten you,” a voice whispered.

He heard the voice; clearly as if someone had spoken over his shoulder. He was still the only occupant; he checked.

Jackson Silver looked and felt every bit the old man he was. His body ached and what didn’t ache, he could either no longer feel or had been removed. It was expected, of course. He was within eyesight of ninety; eighty a distant memory. No one should expect things to work as designed at such an age.

His hair was short, thinning by the day, and very white. Soft to the touch, more feather duster than bristle brush, and clinging haphazardly to his tanned scalp in cotton-like tufts. His face had eyes like a Bloodhound and more creases on his cheeks than a Shar-Pei. Glancing at his arms as he dressed, he noticed they were not only covered in liver spots, but also much thinner than he remembered. Loose skin sagged, like pliable Papier-mâché, as he slipped on his shirt. Jackson wondered how all this had happened without his noticing. He dared not check below his waist.

He lived alone in his retirement apartment; a condo, the facility called it. Creatively advertised to the elderly as luxury assisted living condominiums. The word play, as with all advertising, was intentional. In his day, this was an apartment, nothing more, nothing less. Put on a bigger price tag and a fancy name, and now guilt-ridden children could feel better knowing their loved ones were in a ‘luxury’ facility.

Life is nothing more than a numbers game, he thought. Age and money - which makes the world spin - are simple numbers, but ones that seem the most important to people. You hope to see both grow, becoming large, but still, they are only numbers. What you’ve done with the numbers you were given is what matters.

His wife, Jennifer, had never known this place. She had preceded him nearly twenty years before. It had rained that night, and the roads had been slick. She’d had a little too much to drink, the police officer had told him, breaking the news as kindly as was possible.

He sighed.

She visited his dreams more frequently now, and each time, she was driving her car. A dark blue BMW it had been, he thought. She always asked him to get in; he always declined.

Born and raised in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, Jackson had spent his life traveling the world and when he was ready to retire, he returned. He had been a journalist, back when the truth mattered. It had rewarded him with a full life, a wife he had adored, two amazing children, and five grandchildren.

During his career, he had never been one to shy away from asking tough questions, the ones that mattered and demanded answers. He thought the journalists of today lacked character and pandered to the whims of select groups. And don’t get him started on the people who based their opinions and decisions on what celebrities thought or said rather than real facts. Such behavior was repulsive and preposterous.

To think a celebrity knew what mattered most to the average citizen was incredulous. The social circles of A-list celebrities and people who made the world work attracted each other like opposite ends of the same magnet. Were people no longer able to think for themselves, he wondered. But truth in journalism was no longer his war to wage.

Jackson needed to be careful, his heart was on borrowed time, and racing was not a good idea, not at his age.

His children, daughter Lee and son John, would be here soon; he was excited to see them. They both had moved away years ago, settling in different areas along the eastern seaboard, with families of their own. It was a rare treat for him when they were together; how many more of these opportunities did they have, he wondered, not for the first time.

As he aged, both had repeatedly offered him space to live, and each time, he politely refused. No amount of begging or pleading helped. Jackson knew his time was short, he believed the dreams told him that. He could feel it too; perhaps they could sense it as well. He had started here; he would end here.

“Open up, old man,” preceded the knock on his door.

“If I don’t answer in ten minutes,” he replied, “give me another two.”

Opening the door, he asked, “Why are you two allowed to say I’m old, but I’m not?”

“Majority rules, Dad, it’s how the world works,” they said in unison.

Sighing, he walked back to his chair by the window, sat, and retrieved his pipe.

They sat together for a few hours, his children taking turns telling him the latest exploits of his grandchildren.

Lee’s oldest, Liam, was graduating college in the spring and already had a few offers from companies overseas. Her twin girls, Lauren and Kathryn, high school seniors, were wreaking havoc on the unfortunate male students who continued to succumb to their schemes, charms and pranks. Whomever they date, Lee had said more than once, will have their hands full.

John’s boys were doing well also. He described how Andrew, his youngest, adjusted to college life.

“How is Shane?,” Jackson asked his son.

Looking at his watch, John said, “We’d better get going, we don’t want to be late.”

“Where are we going? Neither of you would tell me,” Jackson said to his children.

“It’s a surprise,” Lee said with a twinkle in her eyes.

“You two are incorrigible,” he said.

“We learned it from you, Dad,” Lee responded.

Memories filled the car as they drove. He had introduced them to the beauty and enjoyment of minor league sports when they were young. Lee never took to baseball, but she dutifully went each time they had tickets for a Senators game. Hockey was a different story; she loved the Hershey Bears as much as John. According to Lee, a Bears game was not complete without at least one fight.

They had seen countless players, from both teams, pass through over the years. Some had made permanent homes, their Major League dreams unable to find a crack in Hershey or Harrisburg. For more than a few, they had succeeded, and Jackson and his children had seen them back when.

Before Jackson knew it, forty minutes had passed, and they were pulling into the parking lot for the Giant Center.

“Surprise!” his children exclaimed.

“I haven’t been here in years,” he said with soft reverence. “I’m old, but even I know it’s still two hours before warm-ups.”

“Yeah, I know, Dad, but you’re old and need more time” John said See Short Story, continued on Page 22

Conversely, I didn’t realize how many cool looking movies aren’t streaming on Netflix that I’ll never see.

Researchers say time is an illusion. So, time is like sawing someone in half on stage or pulling a rabbit out of a top hat, then eating it.

Scientists say the earth’s core may have stopped spinning. Hula Hoopers round the world are in mourning.

It takes me four hours to watch a twohour movie because of naps and constant rewinding to try to find where I lost consciousness.

Everyone seems to know the truth these days which, to me, means that nobody knows the truth these days, including me.

Have we run out of generations? 18 thru 25 is Generation Z, the last letter of the alphabet. Will the last Gen-Zer please turn off the light before you leave?

Short Story, continued from Page 23 laughing. “No more questions, let’s go.”

“Why are we going in the player’s entrance?” Jackson asked.

“Dad!”

“Right, sorry.”

Inside, they saw Coco speaking to someone, his back to them.

The loveable mascot walked over to them then abruptly moved aside. Standing behind him was Shane Silver, John’s son.

“May I present tonight’s starting left wing,” John said.

Immediately, tears of joy began to flow along Jackson’s heavily creased cheeks. He was speechless.

They watched their first game together in years. After the game, Shane presented his grandfather with an autographed team stick and his game-worn sweater.

It was the best day in years, he had told his children when they returned to his condo. “Get some rest Dad, you’ve had a long day,” they told him. In bed, before he drifted off, he told Jennifer what their children had done for him. As he slept, he dreamt of Jennifer and her car again, offering him a ride. This time, he accepted.

Raised in Harrisburg, Steven McKenney currently resides in Northern Virginia and is a veteran of the United States Navy Submarine Force. When he isn’t writing, he enjoys spending time with his two grown children, watching sports, and reading.

I’m Not Afraid of Me Now

by Emily Murtoff

For centuries of my life, I was made of other people’s ideas, draped in garments ill-fitting and suffocatingly soft like the velvet couch when the acid drops. Limbs linger on the edge of another reality of coin cushions & old hair, where I am a majestic quilt that stays cool to the touch; And I merged with the surface of this sweet existence, briefly. I saw both worlds at once and equally— to bend the fabric of time is so satisfying.

But I always returned, suddenly, the rush into the first spring rain, hot to get my skin wet, to abandon self, to throw off everything down to the bone and rebuild again.

Like a bird makes a nest, taking little pieces from here, from there— a scrap of your patience, please, a twig of your trepidation, a fresh leaf of your unfiltered laughter.

For centuries, I was a thief. Needing to borrow to breathe, needing reflection to see; I wanted wind to autopilot me

I’ll see that movie I’ll hold your hand, Who’s your favorite band? Take me where you like to go; You pick you pick you pick

I was the fly and the wall, a silent black speck on the surface of a life, watching the girls at the soda machine trade quarters for belly burps and braided bracelets. But not with me.

For four of my lifetimes, I was somebody else, or possibly, no one. A frame where a door would be hung, but there was none. One could pass through me unheeded, not needing to raise a hand, to push, pull, turn, touch— touch, touch, touched but never felt.

For centuries, I was body-less, composed of many compartments holding nothing, or possibly something. Pandora’s box. Nonsense of a non sequitur mind; I was only a smell— daffodil chalk, cookie dough, a fresh cracked egg. The chorus chimed: she’s fine, she’s fine; And I was a fine figment, indeed. Fragments formed in the shape of a person, I could float on forever looking full from the outside, like the little girl who grew up and grew whole— but oh, what empty centuries they had been.

Creeping like a specter through the senseless seam, I found the border of belief in my 25th year and nearly disappeared.

Dangling at the edge of existence, I awoke from my death wish to the rumble of thunder.

A storm. Thank God. The world-ending kind. There came a great flood, fountain of youth, a wormhole opened and I began again.

I stitched a self out of all the threads, mended the many holes I had let grow tattered; I chose my own edges and sewed them in lace.

For the first time in my many lifetimes, I took a name of my own.