Valentine’s Day is coming, so we’re taking a brief break from Marker Drawings to give you Oblivion, a different kind of love story…

A well-dressed middle-aged man sits in the simple chair beside my bed.  The room is plain and white and harbors a window shrouded in thick curtains that block the outdoors except for some shimmering fragments of light that creep in through the edges.  There are various mechanical devices that emit rhythmic beeps, but otherwise these do not register as anything of note and melt into my surroundings.  I lay back on an angled pillow, wrapped in a supple light green gown and draped in crisp and coarse linens.  I stare towards the window and then back at my visitor.

The man wears a striped sky blue polo shirt and khakis, his grey-peppered tawny hair slightly tousled.  He seems very put together on the surface and yet he looks as though he hasn’t slept in days.  He carries himself as if there is some sort of unfulfilled need gnawing at his psyche.  What cause could he have to be so fretful?  What does he want?

He smiles at me.  His blue eyes try to hide an unspeakable sadness, as if he harbors some secret that doesn’t warrant saying.  The pervasive melancholy still glimmers through, accentuated by the darkness encircling those eyes, which appear both wet and dry at the same time.  Has he been crying?  Every once in a while I catch a glimpse of that weight and it shakes me to the core.  I wish I could help him somehow.  I can tell he wants something, but what?

So, there he is, smiling but still somber.  He holds the picture aloft again.  It is a photograph of a beautiful couple.  A white lace dress.  Roses.  They stand outside in the sunset.  They appear happy.  He raises the photograph, eyes pleading with me to some end.  He gently takes my hand and cups it in his own.  He places the photograph within this nest and we held it together for a while.

Something about the couple is familiar; something about this man is familiar.  The young couple in the photograph beams at the unseen camera.  There is a striking resemblance between this man at my bedside and the man in the picture.  Is that perhaps his son?

But it all seems far away, like a dream hinted upon in the periphery.  I stare at the image for a bit longer until losing interest.  As I grow tired, the plain white room yawns all around me.  This time, this place, is all I know.  The allure of the small hints of sunlight at the edges of the window is all that matters.  I raise my head and turn towards those glimmers of light.

The man sighs.  He tenderly brushes some wispy tendrils of hair from my face and kisses my forehead.  I am not at all surprised nor frightened by the gesture.  It is somehow familiar, and this is comforting to both of us.  The man stands and readies himself to go.  He paces slowly to the door, where another person stands waiting.  The man turns towards me one last time.

“I’ll return tomorrow, my love.”  The words fall limply from his lips.  His eyes glisten, unable to contain the inescapable sadness.  Something is still missing, but what?  I smile at him gingerly as he turns away to address the nearby attendant.  “Please make sure she is well cared for.  I will be back.  In the meantime, if she remembers… anything at all…“ his words quaver, “please call me immediately.”

About this story: I wrote this to consider the loss that comes with amnesia, both on behalf of the individual struggling with the condition and those who love them. My grandmother succumbed to dementia slowly over decades. I clearly remember a conversation we had near the end of her life when I visited her in the hospital continuing care unit. After thirty minutes conversing where she wanted me to meet her granddaughter before finally convincing her that I was said granddaughter, there was a sudden spark of recognition. But the joy that accompanied the revelation quickly gave way to sadness as she herself acknowledged, “I won’t remember that in five minutes.” Her words rang true.

Indecision, featured previously here on Haunted MTL, explores some similar themes. Feel free to check out more of Jennifer Weigel’s work here on Haunted MTL or on her writing, fine art, and conceptual projects websites.