Persistence of Memory

The years and the drink dull the mind and diffuse the memory. Sometimes too much; sometimes not enough. But I remember her. Her face, her voice, what she said.

Was she lovely? I remember her as lovely. For a week, a wet and dismal week, she haunted the harborside. I saw her several times, always at dusk, wandering the rain-slick streets, looking curiously at the faces of the men who walked with a sailor's gait. She was small and dressed all in black, as if in mourning.

On the last day she spoke to me. She was standing, I think, by the pier. Was the pier still standing then, or had the storm already destroyed it? Doesn't matter, doesn't matter. I stepped aside to let her pass, and she stopped and looked up at me.

I was a handsome young buck back then, cocky and confident, and accustomed to being looked at by women. Her eyes were dark, dark but not serious. Almost merry. She spoke to me in a voice as gentle as soft rain. She said, "The sea murders pretty men like you. She drags them down and holds them in her cold arms. Sometimes she lets their bodies go, but she never releases their souls. Never." She smiled then, smiled sweetly, and she fastidiously stepped around me. I never saw her again.

Was she talking about me? Was she talking about a dead lover lost at sea? Was she talking about all sailors? I didn't know, and being young I didn't care. For the next twenty-two years I continued to work the seas. And when I thought of her, I'd smile. Friends died at sea during those years, they had accidents that cost them fingers and eyes and occasionally a limb. But nothing touched me.

After twenty-two years I had the sailor's dream. I'd saved enough money to buy a tavern in some harbor town, and I had a cache of wild stories to tell my customers. After being ashore for half a year, I realized I had no real friends in town; they were either dead or still at sea. I had no family but the family of sailors. I had no wife, I had no child, I had no home but a room above the tavern. I looked older than my years; the sea had aged me. I had nothing but stories and memories and the empty company of customers.

More and more, my memories turn to her. Her smallness, her smile, her voice, her eyes. Her eyes, her eyes. For a while I feared that one day she'd step through the door of my tavern. Now I fear she won't.

posted by greg @ 11:50 AM