Dead Flies and Other Sorrows

I read aloud a story in the newspaper about a café in Japan where all the employees have dementia–this leads to many mixed-up orders and laughter from customers and waitresses. I look at you and say, “Isn’t that wonderful! They’ve found some joy from that cruel disease?” You don’t answer; instead, you ask, “Shall I make tea?” It is one of the routines we still have. I nod and add, “I bought Bourbons. They’re in the cupboard.”

I don’t care for the chocolate biscuits, something about them reminds me of the Queen’s Guard, all upright and unvarying, but they’ve always been your favorite. When you used to do the shopping, you’d always buy a packet and some Garibaldi for me. You’d tease me, calling them ‘dead fly biscuits’ saying, “You know they call them that for a reason, and it’s not because of the squashed currants. It’s because of the way they taste!” And you’d smile and kiss me. I miss that.

I hear drawers slamming. I get up and try not to groan; you hate what you call my ‘old man noises.’ As I walk into the kitchen, the radio blasts ‘Women’s Hour,’ I ask Alexa to lower her volume. You snap, “I was listening to that. It was about living funerals. Where did you put that new lemon squeezer?” I must have a blank look on my face because you roll your eyes and say, “The Kennedys’ housewarming gift. I’m going to make lemonade.” I don’t have the heart to tell you our housewarming party was over twenty years ago, and the thing you are looking for is long gone like the Kennedy’s, him from a heart attack, her from breast cancer. So, I say, “I thought we were having tea? I don’t think we have enough lemons to make lemonade.” I don’t add that you never liked lemonade; you said it tasted of empty promises.

A program called ‘Songs that Won the War’ has started. Bing Crosby is singing, ‘Moonlight Becomes You,’ and you say, “Shall we dance?” And although I feel foolish, I take you in my arms. I imagine we look like the couple on our cuckoo clock as we waltz around the kitchen island, you with your blonde hair curling around your shoulders and me with my ruddy cheeks. 

I hear the front door open, and Francis, our daughter, calls out, “It’s me, Dad. I’ve got your shopping.” I quickly look around; it seems like we’ve just survived an earthquake. As I start stuffing everything back into the drawers, Francis walks in. “Oh, Dad, what on earth is going on?” I feel my face flush as I say, “It was your mother. She had a longing for lemonade,” I gesture to where you are swaying as you listen to Vera Lynn sing ‘I’ll be Seeing You.’

I can’t bear to look at Francis’s disappointed face, so I start unpacking the groceries and say, “Did you get Bourbons? You know they’re your mother’s favorite.” Francis goes to the fridge and takes out a bottle of lemonade. She pours two glasses, offers one to me and takes a long swallow from the other. Then she says gently, “Dad? Remember, Mum died ten years ago.”

Adele Evershed is a Welsh writer. Some of the places her work has been published include Grey Sparrow Journal, Anti Heroin Chic, Gyroscope, and Janus Lit. Adele has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Finishing Line Press published her first poetry chapbook, Turbulence in Small Places.