Let The Memories Come To You
Walter thinks about a movie from years ago. He can’t remember the name, or the premise. He can’t remember much except for scattered images, and half-truths that he can’t fully rely on. Maybe it’s one movie. Maybe it’s two. Maybe it’s none.
But as he sits on the edge of the bed, staring at an old man in the mirror, he tries to travel back in time with some clarity. There’s a man and a woman in a living room. The man is in a suit. The woman in a dress. Maybe she’s royalty, because there's a tiara sitting on her head. She’s holding a stiff drink, as is he. She’s yelling at the man, for reasons unknown to Walter. He slaps her and she flails to the floor, looking at him with shock and horror. He’s over-acting, he turns swiftly to the left and places his right hand on his forehead. He says something. Sorry, maybe, or some kind of an apology that still places the blame on her for making him do things that he doesn’t want to do.
Walter is trying to tie a windsor knot. He’s been fumbling with it for over twenty minutes, and he feels annoyed, bordering on angry. What is this movie in his head? Why after 50 years can he still not tie a goddamn tie? Why can’t he remember the name of that black and white movie? Who is that old man staring at him in the mirror? Wasn’t he young? Weren’t they young?
No. He's old and she's gone. That much he can remember.
He can also remember Martha telling him, “boy, you can dress him up, but you can’t take him out,” while she smiled and grabbed the tie, knotting it perfectly within a matter of seconds, then lightly kissing his cheek. “You have no patience, Walter. Memories are like skittish animals. They’ll run away if you chase them. Sit back. Relax. And let them come to you.”
So, he tries. But his nerves are shot. Patience had never been his specialty. But he tries. For her, he tries.
The tie dangles loosely like a noose around his neck, but it’s the best he can do. He opens the door, and steps out into the early fall darkness. He didn’t need the tie for a lonesome walk around the neighborhood. But he promised Martha he would try. His depression would stay at bay, if he woke up and tried.
Outside the streets are dark. He breathes deeply. Let the memories come to you, he says. He closes his eyes. It's 1965. His father is passed out drunk and he's taking money from his wallet and heading down to the theater.
An old Cary Grant movie is playing in black and white. He sits down beside a young girl.
“My name is Walter,” he says.
“Hi,” she smiles, “my name is Martha.”