Not to Remember

Not to Remember

by Alex L. Mauldin

"Some memories are realities, and are better than anything that can ever happen to one again."

"Feathers hit the ground before their weight can leave the air."

The decorations were down in the basement in a box labeled "Xmas." Several boxes with holidays written in black magic marker were scattered about containing Easter baskets, plastic spiders, and leftover firecrackers. The largest box, though, was for Christmas, and it felt heavy in her arms as she carried it upstairs.

The bare tree filled the corner by the large picture window in the living room. The needle-covered branches seemed to reach out for their seasonal burden, but Monica couldn't start. She sank into the sofa and stared at the blank tree. Her stare dug into the shadows in the corner behind the tree, and soon she was lost.

"It's crooked."

"No it's not," she said defiantly. "It just needs a few more lights on this side."

"I'm telling you," he said. "This is a crooked tree. I know trees, and this one is as crooked as they come."

"Alright, Paul Bunyon. Weren't you the one who picked this thing?"

"I felt sorry for it, Monica. It looked lonely," he said while trying to untangle a string of lights.

"Hey, mister. If anyone's lonely, it's me," she said taking the lights from his hands. "Give your woman a kiss."

She had called herself "lonely" then. Of course the voice that had said that word was strong with the knowledge that in fact she wasn't alone, and was filled with the faith that she never would be again. She hadn't realized that she didn't even know what the word could mean.

The phone was ringing.

"Hello?"

"Monica, where were you tonight?" It was Nicki, her personnel supervisor.

"I was out buying a Christmas tree," said Monica.

"But you missed a great little party! Everyone was there except you. Why didn't you stop by?"

"I'm sorry, Nicki. I just couldn't."

"Hey, you just need some time away from yourself, you know? Time to stop thinking about Jack and think about other things."

"I know, it's just that..."

"Some of us are going over to Mack's for some drinks. Want me to swing by and pick you up?"

"Thanks, Nicki. But no, I can't."

"Monica, you have to get out."

"I know. I will sometime."

"He was adamant about the issue. She was going.

"I want you to come up and spend the holidays with me and my folks."

"But, Jack," she protested. "They don't even know me!"

"That's the point, silly. I want them to know my girl."

So she had gone with him to Nebraska for Thanksgiving where, as the joke he liked to tell went, "the men were men, and the sheep were nervous." She always laughed, more so because he kept wearing it out every chance he got. His folks had been nice to her, and she loved spending time with him in the small town he once called home. They'd walked down a Rockwell-esque main street in the middle of a crisp afternoon, stepping into an occasional shop with an unique name, and said "Hello" to more people than she could count. Everyone knew who he was. No one knew her, and that made her feel strangely safe.

"Can I ask you something personal?" she asked as she listened to his heart under his bare skin.

"Fire away."

"How long are you going to love me?"

He grinned. "I might have to check my calendar."

She pinched his stomach. "Seriously. I want to know what you think," she said tracing the pink mark she had left on his skin.

"I think I love you," he said after a moment. "And I think I will for a very long time."

"You think so?"

"I think so."

"I think that's a good idea," she said smiling.

She opened the box and stared at the jumble of lights and various ornaments. On top was a large silver and gold star. Along each of the star's arms were engraved designs of children skating on a frozen pond. She picked it up and felt the raised edges of the pictures.

"Jack?"

He had just walked in. In his hands were books he'd picked up at the library on his way home from work.

"Jack, come here, please," she called from the bedroom.

"What's up? Anything wrong?"

"No. I hope not," she said quietly.

He sat down next to her on the edge of the bed. Her hands were trembling and he tried to soothe them in his own hands.

"Tell me what's wrong, Monica."

That evening seemed like years rather than months ago when she had told him that she was pregnant. Not long after she had to tell him that she no longer was. That feeling of emptiness had stayed with her.

"You know what, hon?"

She shook her head in reply.

"We need a turkey."

"We already have one," she said with her head buried in the refrigerator.

"We do?"

"Yeah, I'm in love with one."

"Oh, funny."

She tossed a coke in his direction. He caught it and hoped it wouldn't explode as he opened it.

"Seriously, Monica. We need one for our first real Thanksgiving. We can't just eat burgers, you know."

"You mean last year's wasn't real enough for you?"

"You know what I mean. We were at my folks'. Not here in our own place."

She sat down at the kitchen table opening a Pepsi. "But I don't know how to cook one."

"We'll figure it out. I'll buy a cookbook, too."

"You sure? You really want to waste that kind of money?"

"What do you mean, waste?"

She grinned at him. "Do I need to remind you of that wok you bought? Or the pasta maker in the closet?"

He frowned. "I want a turkey."

"Ok, then you go get us a turkey, you Great White Hunter," she winked.

She waited.

He had been gone for two hours. The grocery store was a ten minute drive. He should have been back within an hour. Where was he?

Then a police car turned the corner down the street and drove slowly until it stopped in front of their house. The cop driving the car checked the address on the mailbox and then the numbers above the front door. Then he turned off the car and came up the walkway. Before taking the porch steps he looked up and saw Monica staring at him through the window.

Monica looked at the window now. The drapes were closed. In fact they had not been open for three weeks now. She had closed them to cover up the policeman and what he needed to tell her about Jack. She would never open them again.

The tree was still there. It stood there quiet as the rest of the house. Quiet and bare, the tree newly cut down in its prime. The tree was both new and unspeakably old at the same time.

She wondered if the tree had felt anything as it saw the men with the chainsaws coming towards it. Did the tree try and shrink back as the blade touched its skin? Did the tree feel pain as it was cut from its roots and carried away from all it had known? Could the tree have done anything to change its fate?

Of course not. The tree was beyond feeling. Trees are beyond being human. Trees don't have to face policemen, or empty houses, or painful memories. They just reach out with their limbs and their branches, and what they reach for, or whether they find it or not, is never known. They live quietly, and quietly they die.

Monica closed her eyes for distance, and tried for a few quiet moments not to remember.

Copyright © 1997 Alex L. Mauldin

Last update: 4/26/2005; 10:14:50 PM.