Memory

The ladies in the blue and pink pajamas told him that his son would be there this weekend but they were mistaken.  Abraham didn’t have a son.  They told him that he had to back to his room but they wouldn’t let him leave this damnable place.

The food was horrible.  The bread was stale and nothing had any flavors.  If Celia was there he’d be eating like he was used to.  Just last week she made him a roast that was so good, so tender, he’d eaten half of it in one sitting.  She was beaming when he finally put the fork down.  Her first successful dinner.  Nothing burned.

He asked when he could go home to Celia but the ladies just looked at each other and hemmed and hawed and scuttled away.  What the hell was wrong with these people?

Last night he’d gone into the big room at the end of the hall. Just shuffled in like he owned the place and nobody stopped him.  There was a pretty woman in soft yellow already there, reading.  She looked up and they just stared at one another.

They waited each other out. A silent blessing. The two could have peace and share this place.  Abraham walked over to a haphazard pile of musical instruments and pulled out an old worn violin case.

How strange. His initials were on it.

He pulled the violin from its bed of old velvet, worn pink and rubbed raw from age and use.

A few notes.

He did have a son.

A graceful slide.

Celia wouldn’t be making any more dinners - for anyone.

Tears started to fall down his cheek and fell from his chin to rest on the deep cherry of the wood.

A bright arpeggio that faded into a slowly retreating note.

This was home.

Back into the case.

Where was he?

© H.C. Elliott