Disrespect At Its Finest

“Uncle Dato built it.”
“Why?”
“It pleased him.”
“He calls it Memory Tree.”
Laughter from five cousins scorches the air.
“This from a man with dementia?”
“Open a door.”
“Holy der’mo!”
“Hello, Uncle.”
“Open.”
The eldest complies.
“Give it to me.”
A slip of yellowed paper passes hand to hand.
“Our wedding day. Zoya wore blue silk. Another.”
The youngest opens a door.
“Our firstborn lived three days. Another.”
“The army arrived. Few are left. Another.”
“The sun shone so brightly today. My heart is filled with joy.”
“We are eating dogs. Another.”
Doors open, shut, open, shut.
In less than an hour, memories of an entire lifetime flow over those gathered around the Memory Tree.
The final note.”My brothers have sons, I have none. I will pour love upon my nephews.”
Uncle Dato nods at each man before taking leave.
Silence. Then laughter.
“That’s one crazy old man.”

An Old Man’s Memories

This week, Pegman transported us to Peleliu, a WW II battlefield. Thanks for an inspiring place to write! I’ve never heard of this island or its history. Ah, so much to learn, so little time. (P.S. “Urasai” means “Shut Up”)

 

“I don’t know who these kids think they are! Trash on the altar!”
“Kozue, they mean no harm.”
“Hush! You know nothing! They come, laugh at the statues, fornicate on the steps, play loud music and dance! They show no respect for those who died here.”
Realizing his wife will drone on for a very long time, Hideshi allows her words to fade to the far recesses of his mind even as unwelcome memories float before his eyes: Blood Tears Broken limbs Missing limbs. And into his ears: Screams Threats Commands Gunfire Gunfire Gunfire rat-a-tat-tat. Over and over and over. And the smell of death: Festering wounds Urine Excrement Blood.
Ah, to have memories of this ungodly battlefield replaced by thoughts of beautiful young girls making love with curious boys, the smell of perfume, the scent of too much aftershave, the glorious sound of laughter, music, and sighs . . .
“Kozue! Urusai!”

Sweet Memories

Our Friday Fictioneers photo prompt was provided by Jean L. Hays and posted by our hard-working leader, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.

You balance beneath the Tucumcari sign, bent-kneed, and crook-backed,
harsh wind whipping your thin white hair.
Docs at Resting Arms nursing home declared you empty-headed.
Not so.
Memories of people who passed through your trading post wander around in your mind like welcome guests.
Each memory sharp.
Juanita: Spanish dancer with a chihuahua who sang “Starlight.”
Roy: Man driving his wife’s skeleton the length of Route 66.
Unique and Special: Twins joined at the shoulders, riding bikes, side-by-side.
Your favorite?
Brice: Brahma bull rider. Grinner of wide grins. Slapper of thighs.
The rodeo man who made you laugh for sixty-nine years.

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