I
At the Oceana Apartments, at the dawning of the last days, he chases butterfly memories.
Through the open window comes the sound of breaking waves. He has always loved the sea, long captive to its amniotic pull. So he lives here in this small apartment, lives here in Santa Monica,
lives here with his wife,
lives here with the dream of who he was and the reality of what he has become. He is old. He will not live much longer, here or anywhere else.
On this, the last set of his life — the walls, and the ocean behind — he is missing his marks. He is faltering in the final steps of the dance. The enchained recollections of his life have begun to slip away, until soon he will no longer have the power to bring to mind even his own name. So he tries to hold on to his memories, because each one that escapes, never to be recovered, represents a further dissolution of the self. When all the memories have departed, so too will he.
The dead have no recall.
He was famous once.
No, he and Babe were famous once. But now Babe is gone, and he is alone. Babe.
Every regret in his life holds the echo of this name.
*
He can remember meeting Babe, and he can remember losing Babe, but the events between are like paints imperfectly mixed, swirls of color and texture, each representing a single, beautifully ordinary day, a conversation perfect in its inconsequence, a moment of transitory joy, its essence both preserved yet elusive.
These remembrances are gemstones tumbling to the ground, shattering on impact. He struggles to retrieve the fragments, to maintain his hold upon them and comprehend their disparate meanings.
These remembrances are snowflakes swirling in his path. They melt in his hand at the instant of connection, so that he is left only with the chill of loss. These remembrances are flickering images on a screen.
Two figures in a dance eternal.
He and Babe.
Now only he.
