It's Alright

 It’s Alright

Alvin brought the cup to the small table in their apartment, placed it in front of his wife, and sat down across from her, smiling at her lovely face. A plate of cookies sat between them, next to a small vase of fresh-cut flowers. He looked out the window next to them, seeing the blue sky, a brilliant backdrop to the trees that were dressed in their fall fashions, reds, yellows, and tans. He thought about opening the window for some fresh air, but the allergies made his wife’s eyes water.  Maybe he would go out after dinner and enjoy the sunset, he thought.

He pulled his red metal folding chair out from the table and sat down with a soft grunt, the tablecloth settling over his knees that creaked like rusty hinges. He spoke to his wife. “Do you remember when we went to that little town in New Hampshire and had coffee and tea at that little shop by the bay? We sat at a little table just like this one. I had coffee and you had peppermint tea.” He nodded at her cup, the minty smell lightly teasing his nose. "That’s how I learned that was your favorite.” He took a bit of a sugar cookie and a slurp of his black coffee. “I got these tables and chairs so we would have a little reminder of the trip. Do you remember?”

“I remember,” she said. 

Alvin took another bite of cookie, crumbs landing in his beard and falling to his chest. While he chewed, he wiped his beard with a small paper napkin, knocking the crumbs to the floor. “You know, hon” he said, “today reminds me of the time we went apple picking in Indiana. It was a brisk, cool, fall day - very much like this one.” He gestured at the window. “The colors, the smell of a bright fall day just can’t be beat,” he said. He took another sip of coffee. “We spent the morning picking apples - Jonathans and Galas and some really green, tart ones. I think we got four bushels squeezed into our trunk. I ate so many of them that you had to drive home, and you had to pull over twice so I could get sick. Then, a few days later, we made fresh cider and I got sick again…” His voice trailed off into a few moments of pause.  “Do you remember that, sweetie?”

“I remember,” she said. 

A newspaper lay on the table, quartered. Alvin picked it up, unfolded it once, twice, three times, found the weather, leaned back and began to read. “It says here that they are expecting it to be a colder than average winter. Remember when we spent Christmas snowed in, down in Eureka Springs? The roads were choked. It was so bad, even the highway department had to wait out the blizzard. We lost power to the house, but our gas stove worked. We made hot chocolate and soup and snuggled in front of the fireplace to stay warm.” He chuckled and set the paper down in his lap. “Good thing we didn’t have Netflix then,” he added mischievously. He took another sip of coffee. “The snow and ice started melting off of the roofs and out of the trees. My boss was shoveling his sidewalk and got hit by an icicle and had to take an early retirement. That’s how I got promoted. Remember that?”

“I remember,” she said.

“You’ve hardly touched your tea and cookies,” he said, looking at his wife. He blinked his eyes. They didn’t seem to work like they used to. She was sitting there, just a few feet away, but everything was soft, blurry, in focus but not in focus at the same time. He could see her eyes, as blue as the sky, her lips, slightly chapped. He needed to get her some Chap-stick, he thought. Her hair was mostly silver but just as full as it had always been. He watched as she raised her eyes to look at him and, with a soft smile, she tapped on the table four times. 

“Alvin,” she said. 

Alvin was confused. Her mouth hadn’t moved. She was growing fuzzier, more out of focus. She was there, but she was disappearing, like watching trees disappear into the fog rolling into the clearing behind their house, hiding the forest beyond it. Something jingled in his mind about forests and trees, but he couldn’t quite grasp it. 

Again, she knocked four times and called his name, her mouth still not moving. “Alvin?” The fog rolled in, and she disappeared into the mist. 

He blinked his eyes again. His butt hurt. So did his back. The seat was empty across the table from him, and it wasn't red or cute. He was alone, except for a small cup of water and two graham cracker squares sharing a paper-towel placemat in front of him. Crumbs were on the table and in his lap. He sighed; he just didn’t care. He turned his head to the right where a landscape print hung in a cheap frame. He looked over at three tissue-paper-and-pipe-cleaner flowers leaning limp in a vase, next to a card that said, “Grandpa.” His eyebrows puckered in confusion. Where was his coffee, his cookies, the beautiful view? This table isn’t right, he thought, and where did Andrea go? 

Four more taps sounded to his left. “Alvin?” Turning his head, he watched as the door swung open and a cheery, young woman, whom he sort-of recognized but couldn’t remember, exactly, appeared. She seemed friendly, though, so that was OK. Besides, she had blue eyes and a nice smile and her blonde hair had a silverish hue to it. He looked at her closely, squinting. There was something there, someone sneaking out of the fog...

“Andrea!” he said, joy spreading across his face, a laugh escaping through his big smile. “Andrea! I thought you had left me! I don’t understand - where did everything go?” 

Leaning over, the woman embraced the old man, wrapping her arms around his frail body, placing her head on his shoulder. This never got easier, she thought. Fighting the tension in her throat, she kissed him on the cheek, feeling a three-day stubble against her lips. She pulled back, slightly, so he could see her and so she could look into his eyes. She cleared her throat and said softly, gently, “Daddy, it’s me, Danny - your daughter.” 

His eyes tried to focus again. The smile faded into confusion. She looked so familiar, like Andrea, but it wasn’t her. “Where’s Andrea?” he asked, concern growing in his voice. He looked around his room, seeing a man in blue scrubs walking past the open door. “Where did she go?” Again, he looked around, seeing another man and a child standing behind the woman who was kneeling in front of him.  

“She’s gone, Dad. She died three years ago.  Pete and I…” She stopped. What do you say to the man who once held you and told you stories, who made sure you were safe and fed and clothed, who worked every day of his life to care for his family, and now couldn’t remember anything except in small, random moments of lucidity. She took a deep breath to steady her voice, held it, and softly let it out. “Daddy…do you know I love you?”

His eyes found hers and, for a moment, there was clarity. The fog lifted, just a bit. His daughter appeared clearly in the forest and the trees. “Danny,” he said, with not much more than a whisper. He held his hand out and she took it, wrapping both hands around his. “Danielle…I remember…”

And, for a moment, he did.
And, for a moment, it was alright.