By Thomas H. Cannon

John is sitting on a bench looking at a most beautiful seascape when a jumping spasm in his hand pulls his attention down into his lap.  He is confused to see a wrinkled pile of old hands resting there.  A moment passes before he realizes those are his hands. It’s another moment before he sees another, a third hand appear.  A more slender but equally old hand squeezes twice in gentle succession.  But John does not feel this, they are weightless, he only sees it happen.

John looks up and away from the ocean down below the tall cliffs into eyes he has not seen in far too long.  He’s confused because there is some reason she should not be here, but he can’t…  He is drawn into her diamond blue eyes.  Into a memory he has not thought of in many decades.

The gentle old woman he is looking at falls away and he is sitting in the soft light of a kitchen at a table drinking a cup of coffee.  She is telling a story as she cuts food.  Her speaking is muffled by large cubes of some juicy fruit. Outside he hears a child splash and scream in a pool.   They are in their first home.

He is about to say something that makes her laugh really hard.  But he can’t recall what it was.  The memory skips and they are kissing seductively after having laughed enough to be out of breath.  Her lips are sweet from the juice and only the sudden wide eyed appearance of a child ends their stumble toward the bedroom. Their smiles take them all back into the kitchen.  He chuckles and his mind drifts into the bright sunlight.

John and the old woman are walking now looking at the roiling seascape out below the cliffs.  He holds her hand in a very specific way, grasping her thumb and forefinger for a closer fit while walking.  They used to walk a lot, he thinks.  He looks and her endless gaze is out over the horizon. He waits for her to say something, but she doesn’t.  The she turns and looks at him.  Once again her eyes pull him into a long forgotten memory.

They are somewhere new and exciting, but they are tired.  Everything has gone wrong so far and he is feeling sorry he came.  It starts to rain, which they expected, but are ironically unprepared for.  Niether of them utter a word.  They march on in dreary, jaw clenched silence.  They are impeded by a  old wooden gate and she can’t get it open fast enough so John huffs in and takes over.  He gets the gate open and walks through, a few steps on the other side he slips in mud and drops heavily onto his back.  Again his memory drifts over her remarkable laughter.  His cheeks ache from smiling, and they are both on the ground covered in mud, letting the fresh rain wash them clean.  The great mud fall took place on their first trip to Ireland.

John comes to, and he is back on the bench. He turns and sees a warm and inviting face urging him to follow.   He recognizes the friendly bearded man, all dressed in white, but he wants to turn back and stare at the sea down below the cliffs.  The man has only the slightest of smiles, but the urge to follow is great.   John looks behind the man but can only squint in the piecing brightness.  Then John shakes his head and turns back to the waves.  He is old so he forgets, but he is certain he is supposed to be on this bench waiting for something very important.

After some time John looks back and the man in the white outfit is still standing there.  John looks away and tucks his hands in his lap.  The waves crash below and he has a hard time not drifting off.  He would absolutely love to take a nap right there on the cold bench with the warm sun shining on his, but he feels certain if he falls asleep the man in white will take him from the bench.

He blinks and he is not sure if he has been asleep.  The horizon has changed, the storm passed, leaving a shocked sky full of orange and pink clouds, above a dark blue sea.  John sits up in his seat ever so slowly, and turns his aching back to see if the pleasant man is still there.  He is surprised instead to see the woman.   She turns to look at him.  Their eyes met.   She is back, but her eyes are different now. He does not rush into a memory but stays on the bench with her.

“Hello.”  She says.

Hearing her voice brings John fully off the back of the bench.  He places a hand on his knees so he can turn fully in her direction.  He looks at her again and bounces his finger tip to his lip, thinking to say something.

“I’m sorry,” She says, “but I have memory problems.  Don’t I know you?”  She asks reaching out her hand,

John’s eyes follow her hand as it came towards him.  And touches him speechless.

She tilts her head looking at him, “Wait, John?”  She asks.

He smiles at her, “Yes, my love it’s John.” Her touch soothes in him a long aching pain and his voice comes out with a relived timber.

She smiles, “You waited for me.”  She says tucking her hand smoothly into his.  She squeezes.

“Of course I did my love, I told you that I would.”

“Where was I again?”  She asks, looking around to see if she could remember from where she came.

“Oh, no need to worry about that now.”  John says standing.  She rises cautiously after him.  Hand in hand they stand from the bench and start away from the endlessly crashing waves below.  The man in white is still there.  His smile as inviting as ever.

“Wow its beautiful.”  She says.

“Yes it is.”  John replies, his gaze never leaving her sight.  He watches as her gray hair grow black and lines in her face wash away as her cheeks fill with color.

“And it’s so warm,” She adds honestly excited, “I don’t think I could have waited for you.”

“That’s why I had to come first.”  John says.

She laughs, and John hears it.

The End.