REMEMBERING by Alain Kerfs

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This elderly woman talking, she is familiar.

She places her wrinkled hand over mine and says, “Josef.”

Josef?

“Josef,” she says again. Sharper, meant to gain attention.

I am not stupid. I am defined by items I do not remember: numbers, names, dates. Items that float away like children’s bubbles on a breeze, popping when I reach for them.

“Josef, they’ll be here soon.”

I shake my head. I must eat dinner now; the clock tells me this.

“They’ll have dinner with us,” this woman says, looking at me looking at the clock. “You agreed, remember?”

I nod. It is important that she understands that I understand.

“Becka and the kids. Your daughter, your grandchildren.”

The one I picture is young, quiet, smart, and serious. He does not ask questions that leave me flailing, popping bubbles. I do not know his name.

“They’ve been waiting for this.”

I have a slip of paper in my empty wallet, the proximity reassures me. Someone has written on it, “Things to remember.” The handwriting is familiar. The list includes:

Remember to change clothes daily.

Remember their names: Irena, Rebecca, Noah, Benjamin.

Remember to remember the important things.

“You promised to tell them your stories.”

I hear a vehicle outside. I can still drive. I cannot remember directions or addresses; the numbers blow away. I do not know where the car keys are kept. No one helps when I ask for them.

“The boys want to hear about… you know.”

Some things I remember with severe clarity. I remember a man speaking somber words from a television about a good man who has died; I remember sitting on a chair held twirling in the air, trusting, enjoying it; I remember long wooden buildings surrounded by dirt and cold and hunger, filled with fear and sorrow. More sorrow than a person can hold and I would like to misplace it, but this one item stays before me like a children’s bubble settled on a hard surface, gleaming and taunting, unbreakable.

“They want to film you telling your stories. How you survived. When you were about their age. You agreed to this, remember?”

I am 134285. I know this; I do not have to remember it. It is faded and interrupted by grotesque age spots, but I can read it, upside down, on my wrist. My wrist remembers for me that I am a survivor.

“You’ll do fine.”

Do fine? What have I forgotten?

“Where is your bracelet?” this woman asks, her voice sharp enough to hurt. She touches my other wrist, unencumbered by numbers.

I have no answer, a bubble wafts away carrying a picture of a bracelet snagged, torn off, a shiny band of metal, the name “Josef” and lines of numbers and letters etched upon it, settled into deep carpet.

“Josef, you have to keep it on. What if you went outside without it?”

The doorbell rings.

This woman rises, the sudden absence of her hand drains warmth from my wrist. Cold permeates the skin, shivering seizes me, the wrist twitches.

This woman leaves the room.

The numbers on my wrist twitch and blur. I try to read them, try to remember them. I am a survivor; these numbers tell me. I am 1342…

Voices in the hallway, none of them familiar. Fear rises within me. Who is coming? Where am I? What can I do?

I stare but the numbers pull away, bubbles pushed out by cold, slicing wind. I am 134…

The voices grow louder, closer.

Out the back door, easy to escape, no guards, around the building to the street, freedom beckoning, and I am running, past barbed fences and dogs, past search lights and horrid stench, past fear and sorrow, safe now, running away.

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AUTHOR BIO:

Alain Kerfs’s fiction has appeared or is upcoming in One Teen Story, Summerset Review, Literally Stories, Flash Fiction and elsewhere. He attended the MFA Creative Writing program at San Francisco State. Born in Brussels, Belgium, he lives in the San Francisco Bay Area.

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WHY WE CHOSE TO PUBLISH “Remembering”:

In a little over 600 words, author Alain Kerfs delivers a tender, yet chilling, piece that is about both remembering and forgetting. The piece starts out innocently enough until the piece makes its abrupt turn. Fine writing is about the art of showing, not telling. That is precisely what we have here.