"Gone, but never forgotten."

"To Charlie," they all responded, downing a shot of his favorite tequila. Everyone's eyes were on me, the poor widow. They seemed to be expecting something though I wasn't sure whether it was a speech thanking them for showing up for the memorial, more tears of grief, or the customary silence they were used to from Charlie's little wife.

"Another round," I said to the bartender. "It's what Charlie would have wanted,"I said to the myriad faces that seemed surprised to hear me speak.

"Here, here!" A few voices shouted.

Two more shots and I was three sheets to the wind and ready to say what I'd come to say.

"I want to thank you all for coming out to help me celebrate the life of Charlie Nichols, the best man I have ever known." I heard a spattering of affirmation amongst the group.

"Charlie was always there for everyone, whether to help paint a house, listen to a problem, or with a dollar or two." I paused. "Or thousands."

Some uncomfortable laughter.

"So, imagine my surprise when slowly, one by one, all of Charlie's besties fell into a black hole as Charlie battled for his life these last ten ears."

Some squirming ensued.

"Where were you then? When he needed to hear a friend's voice, hold a loved one's hand. Of course, he had mine, but what happened to you?" I asked in a soft voice full of hurt for my beloved.

"Were you afraid he'd ask you to pay back all the loans he gave you over the years to help pay for his medical bills? He had every right, but you knew him. He would never dream of asking anyone for anything. He was a giver through and through.

"So, where were you when he was still here to appreciate your presence? Where were you when he needed reassurance he was loved and needed and that his was a good life worth fighting for?" I looked around.

"Was it too hard to watch a friend suffer and die?" I paused. No one would make eye contact. "Imagine how much harder it was for Charlie to endure that suffering with only my shoulder to lean on after having been there so often for so many, if not all, of you. Was it too much to expect that you be there for him? To expect even a phone call on his birthday?"

"Charlie was my husband, but he was also my best friend. My heart broke every time the phone rang and it was a scam or a telemarketer when he was hoping it was one of you. I watched the light die in his eyes as his illness ravaged his body. When he needed you, really needed you, he discovered he had been forgotten.

"So, forgive me when I say you are full of shit when you say, 'Gone, but never forgotten.' You forgot him a long time ago."

The old woman slowly opened her eyes and stared around the room filled with a good number of bonsais. Her shaky hands tried to reach out to something, or someone. But no one was there. She blinked her eyes at a snail’s pace, and then suddenly felt a throbbing pain coming from her head. Soon her ears began to ring. She tried shaking her head back and forth, thinking that might do the trick. Out of no where she started to see fragments— bits and pieces of what was left in her locus coeruleus- she could not recognize anything that a part of her brain stem had stored from her life. She asked in a gentle whisper: ‘‘Who are you people? What are you doing in my room?’’ Some of the shadows were quite busy twirling around the woman, and others were smiling at her. She could not take it any longer, and she let out a piercing scream. Then she finally spotted a familiar shadow in the room: a young dashing gentleman who was dressed in a dashiki. This brought a smile to her face. Now the room that had surrounded her began to gradually fade away into a burst of bright sunlight as if a giant hammer had been slowly chipping away the haunting space. The gentleman had a smile on his face as he said to the woman: ‘‘Come on. Let’s now go together to a much better place than this; one where you will not have a room all to yourself, and your forgotten memories.’’

#CORVUS #Oblitus #es

30/05/2025. Friyay.

I wish it could be so

even minuscule bits

could be zap erased

gone from existence

they cannot be extinguished

clinging life scrapes floating

popping up in tsunami ebb

to grasp for attention focus

will not let me dream sleep

grocery shop music playing

sobbing moments of my life

in parsley background notes

nothing lost obliterated

no chance of an escape

everything remembered

carried cellularly forever

Jenny is an ex-model. She struggles with substance abuse. Tommy is a big-time preacher now. He only waves in passing, at the grocery store or in a restaurant. Dianne moved away. At first, everyone supported her, but then maybe some resented her. She never calls, but on Facebook, we see her pictures of the West Coast. Peter was always a little different, but we all loved him anyway. Now he is a recluse, and we don’t know anything about him. Jack is a high school baseball coach. He is married with a wife and kids and claims he never has time to hang out because of them, but everyone knows it’s because of his multiple affairs. Most people say I never grew up, that I’m stuck in a dead-end job, and a waste of potential.

Looking back, things began to fall apart when we were teenagers. Tommy went on a youth trip with his church one summer and was never the same again. He made new friends and was always busy after that. Peter wasn’t cool enough in high school, so he was bullied. They didn’t associate with him as much. He stopped hanging around. Dianne and Jenny were best friends, but when Jenny and Jack started dating, Jenny didn’t have as much time for Dianne. Dianne turned to her schoolwork and decided to get a scholarship and leave this dusty old town the moment she graduated. At first, they tried to ostracize me too when I tried to hang out with Peter, but I was a star athlete on the tennis team. Crazy how being good at sports makes you cool enough. When Jenny and Jack broke up senior year, that was the final straw. Jack focused on baseball, and Jenny turned to parties to numb the pain.

Forgotten are the days of our youth when we roamed the woods together and defended our fort among the trees. Gone are the days when we painted our faces with mud and played hide and seek. The oaths of friendship we made in childhood are all seemingly past recall. Perhaps they are right, saying I never grew up, because as I ponder, I realize that I have never forgotten.

Having trouble remembering their birthdays? Have have you ever thought it might because they weren't important? Can't remember where you left your defibrillator? Have you thought it might because you forgot to pay your Cardiologist? Your anniversary? (Would you do it again?)

Where do all of those forgotten things go? Energy can not be created or destroyed. They have to go somewhere.

As we live our lives, we sequester off an archipelago of "cortical islands," where the forgotten go. The birthdays. The remote. Why you found yourself walking into another room. And when you die, the death throes are not desperate heaves attempting survival, but a massive infrastructure project to build bridges among the archipelago. Once connected, the traffic is heavy. On your death bed you will remember all of your forgotten things.

It's quite the rush. It's enough to kill you.

Remember that time you had a threesome with Uma and Angelina? No? Some things are forgotten on purpose. But they all come back. Your secrets purposely forgotten; your traumas psychologically sequestered; your woulda-coulda-shouldas and what you should have told that piece o'shit—that you thought up in the shower the night after.

They say, "You can't take it with you." But that only applies to the remembered things. We're cluttered and we need to pack light for the last trip. But we do take with us all of the forgotten things, which is why our Final Judgment is so hilarious. (Wait till Uma and Angelina die and remember you!)

"Don't."

"I just--" She reaches toward him, trying to rest a hand on his shoulder. He flinches, shrinking into himself.

"Don't." He repeats the word in a defeated whisper, staring up into a corner of the room. The ceiling fan slowly cuts through the air above, and a mesmerizing shadow flows behind the blades.

The silence stretches until he makes an idle observation. "It's been years since that thing worked. I had a replacement new in the box, but it sat in the garage for the last near decade. I never got around to installing it."

She tries on a smile, seeing if it fits. It's a squeeze, but she manages to shimmy into one. He hears the strain in her voice as she attempts to broadcast calm. "Looks like it's fine."

He turns his gaze her way. "The day it started working was the first day you did this."

She knows what he means by this. He shivers, but the room is comfortable.

Words stop flowing and the quiet is a drought.

A minute, an hour, a year seem to pass. There's a slight jingle as one of the brass pull chains does a dance, sometimes hitting one of the lightbulbs on the bottom of the ceiling fan.

Finally, he reaches out and takes one of her hands in both of his. His palms are clammy and cold, but a bead of sweat runs from his temple down to the neatly trimmed beard at his jawline. It almost looks like a tear, but his voice is steady and not thickened by heightened emotion. He sounds eerily calm when he speaks.

"You saw her." It's a statement, not a question.

Unsure if it's rhetorical, since they've discussed this at length, she answers with a yes.

He nods. His gaze returns to the fan blades chasing one another in an endless loop.

"Do you think it's coincidence?"

"What's that?" She asks, not quite following. This is a new conversation, not more retelling or rehashing of what she saw, heard, and communicated.

"The fan. Years it's sat, unused, because only the light worked. Everything was fine, then, poof, it was broken. I figured maybe a wire had wiggled loose or something, since I practically always left the thing running. Years, it sat there, and then the very day you..." his voice dwindles off, and he makes a vague gesture with one of the hands holding hers.

"The day I what? Say it. It's nothing to be afraid of."

"The day you spoke with the dead."

"Yes. The day I spoke to your grandmother."

He shivers, and more sweat beads on his forehead.

"Let's pretend for a minute that what you're saying is true."

"It is."

"Yes, you're sure of it, but I'm still skeptical it was her."

She scoffs. He sees her lean back a little, taking in the sight of him. She removes her hand from his, and wipes several droplets of sweat from his forehead. She shows him the moisture on her fingers before flicking it away. "It's 71 degrees in here but you're sweating like it's 95. I've watched you shiver at the same time."

"Maybe I'm getting sick."

"Maybe you're terrified."

His answer is a gunshot, harsh, sudden, almost echoing in the room he uses as an office. "You're goddamned right I'm scared." It's nearly a shout, but not quite. She hears the new thinness of his voice in the outburst, but not nearly as much as he feels it. The hollowness in his chest lends a shallowness to his voice that speaks truly of the abject terror within him.

"There's no need to be afraid. I was the one communing, I was the one open, not you."

"So you've said."

"Yes, so what's wrong?"

"Did you ever stop to think that if we're both standing on your porch, and you turn on the light at night, everyone is caught in the glow? The bugs don't care who owns the property, they just fly towards the light. We both get bitten, because we're both there. We were both here."

She pauses, furrows her brow. "I'm not sure that's how this works."

"I'm now sure how this works at all."

"Fear of the unknown is normal, I get it."

"Did you get other voices? Did you get cold? Did you get weighed down?"

She turns to look at him, seriousness washing across her features. He continues.

"Yeah. So, while you're telepathically chatting it up with grammie or whatever, I'm feeling something all over me. Pressing down on my shoulders. On my chest. It's heavy, it's cold, it's suffocating."

Seriousness becomes worry, but she tries not to show it.

She fails.

"Yeah. Exactly. I see that look. Now imagine there I am, trying to put on a happy face for you while you're divining or whatever. But I'm having an entire fucking conversation in my head."

"What was said?"

"Let me in. Over and over and over and over and over."

"What did you say?"

"I said fuck off, fuck you, no."

She laughs. It's involuntary, sudden, and entirely heartfelt. "Really?"

He isn't offended, and even manages to crack a smile. "Yeah. That was a quote."

"Anything else?"

"Yeah, I said you're not welcome here and not to bother me again. I told it I was protected and that I walked in the light."

"I didn't know you were a religious man."

"I guess we never really know how we feel about things until we are certain about some other things. I mean, I'm not headed to church anytime soon, but yeah. I guess I got a little religion in me."

"So what happened next?"

"Lightness. Brightness. Weightless. My shoulders perked up, my chest loosened, I felt like I could practically float away."

"I think that was your guardian spirit reassuring you."

"So you think this shit was real? It wasn't some sort of irrational response to a set of implausible things? It wasn't all in my head?"

"Well, technically it was all in your head, but I think it's more accurate to say it was all in your spirit." It's her turn to take one of his hands into both of hers. She tries to be reassuring, confident, a rock.

He smiles as much as his anxiety will allow.

Silence returns, but it's comfortable.

Finally, he speaks again. "If it's all the same to you, I think I'll not be on your porch when the light is on. Let's not try to talk to any more of my people, if you don't mind. I think it's best if we let those who have gone stay on their way. Leave them gone, not forgotten, but most definitely not here."

She nods, and they enjoy each other's quiet company until it's time for bed. While he doesn't want to be a part of her metaphysical porch light being on, he leaves all the lights in the house on this particular night.

Neither of them notice that the still-turning ceiling fan's dancing shadows stopped moving when they left the room.

Excerpts taken from Star Trek: The Next Generation S5E14 "Conundrum"

In a small apartment an old man relaxed in his recliner with a blanket draped across his lap, eyes gazing listlessly out of the window, when he heard a knock. He turned to face the door as a young man cautiously entered, smiling.

"What are you doing in my room?" the old man asked, brow furrowed.

The young man held up a plastic DVD case. "It's Sunday. And on Sundays, we watch Star Trek."

The old man nodded. "That's right. We do. I guess I forgot what day of the week it was."

"We're on Season Five. Episode Fourteen. Conundrum. This one's fun," the young man said, crossing the room to the television. He pulled a folding chair from the wall, settled in beside the old man, and pressed play.

Data: Intriguing. You have devised a completely unanticipated response to a classic attack. You will checkmate my king in seven moves.

The old man scoffed. "No way Deanna beats Data. He's an android."

"You always say that," the young man chuckled.

"Because it’s true. The day that happens is the day I forget my own name."

Riker: The rules on this ship do not change just because Ro Laren decides they do.

A slight smile crossed the old man's face. "My father was like that. Rules were rules."

"Oh yeah?" the young man asked. "You haven't talked about him much. "

"He was tough. Fair, mostly. But tough. We butted heads when I was young. Looking back that was mostly my fault. I always thought I knew more than I did. The curse of youth."

Riker: I don't know who any of you are.

Picard: Nor do I. I don't... I don't even remember who I am.

The old man’s expression sobered. "Have I ever told you I served in the Navy? Can't image forgetting my crewmates. That's a fate worse than death."

The young man nodded. "You've mentioned it. Sounds like you served with a lot of great men."

"Some of the finest I've ever known. They shaped who I am today."

"Oh, here's the intro!" The young man interrupted.

Space: the final frontier. These are the voyages of the starship Enterprise...

"Never gets old," the old man murmured.

"It sure doesn't. I love Star Trek. My grandfather got me into it. We used to sit down and watch it together just like this."

"Smart man," the old man nodded. “I usually don’t watch much television, but Trek gives me hope for the future. I worry about where the world’s headed for you youngins. You thank him for introducing you to it.”

"I'll make sure to do that"

Riker to Picard: It looks like you're the leader.

Worf: Perhaps we should not jump to conclusions. I am decorated as well.

They both burst into laughter.

"Of course Worf thinks he's in charge," the old man said.

"Hey, he's got the presence," the young man replied. "Just not the diplomacy."

The old man chuckled. "You're right there, son. He sure does have presence. "

Dr. Crusher: I didn't even think. I just picked it up and knew how to use it. At least I have an idea of what I'm doing here.

"Reminds me of my daughter," the old man beamed. "She’s a doctor, and a damn good one. She works at the hospital downtown. Sharp as a tack. Got that from her mother."

"I know," the young man warmly replied. "You talk about her a lot. Sounds like she's doing great."

"She is."

After a pause the young man added, "You know, my mom was a doctor too. She passed a few years ago. Car accident. I miss her."

The old man turned toward him. "I'm sorry to hear that. I'm sure she was a special woman to have raised a young man like you."

"She was."

Ro to Riker: You don't strike me as a man who needs a holodeck to have a good time.

"This scene always cracks me up," the young man laughed. "They can’t stand each other. One memory wipe and now she’s flirting.”

"That’s how it started with my wife," the old man grinned wide. "When we first met we argued like cats and dogs. I think I annoyed her on purpose cause she was so beautiful when she was angry. I didn't need amnesia to turn the tide, though. Just had to wear her down."

The young man laughed. "That's hard to believe."

"Believe it," the old man said with a wink.

Deanna: The bartender is an artificial life-form.

Data: Can I get you something? A beverage?

They both burst out in laughter.

"Data slinging drinks. That’s rich," the old man cackled.

"Wish I had him on my shift, I'd make him do all the work, " the young man laughed.

"You're a bartender? I figured you'd be in school."

"I tried the college thing for a semester. Thought I could be an engineer but... School just isn't my thing. I can make a mean Old Fashioned, though."

"You’ve got potential for more. Don’t waste it behind a bar. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders."

"Thanks," the young man smiled. "That means a lot."

Worf: Captain. I regret my recent behavior. I assumed an attitude of authority that was... unwarranted.

Picard: Mr. Worf, we're all doing the best we can in a difficult situation. Think nothing more of it."

"Apologizing takes guts,” the old man said. “Good for Worf.”

"Yeah, but I agree with Picard" the young man replied. "It's not Worf's fault he couldn't remember. It's not anyone's fault..."

Data: Perhaps my origin is unique. In that case, I am alone.

The old man sighed. "Loneliness isn’t always about being alone. It’s about feeling forgotten. I wish my daughter would come visit. I know she's busy, though..."

"You’re not forgotten," the young man whispered.

Riker: Oh, we were just discussing the situation we're all in.

Ro: Good. Because I have a feeling that I used to be the jealous type.

"I bet that's how it is for you," the old man teased. "All the ladies chasing you."

The young man laughed. "I’m more of a Geordi. I'm hopeless when it comes to women."

"Well, Geordi had heart and so do you. That's not a bad thing. You just need to find the right girl."

Picard: I need some moral context to justify that action. And I don't have it. I'm not content simply to obey orders. I need to know that what I'm doing is right.

The old man leaned back. "Always wanted to be more like Picard. Calm. Decisive. He's a man of strong morals."

"He reminds me of my grandfather," the young man said with a smile. "He's always trying to do what's right."

"Sounds like a good man."

"He is."

The old man looked at him. "You should invite him next time. I’d like to meet the man who got his grandkid to watch Star Trek."

The young man smiled. "I’ll see what I can do."

As the crew's memory was restored and the episode reached its happy end, the old man's head nodded forward drifting off to sleep.

The young man stood, turned off the TV, and slid the DVD back into its case.

As he walked toward the doorway he paused and turned to smile at the peacefully sleeping man.

"See you next Sunday, Grandpa."

Im permanently in you

Like the ink in your tattoos

Im sorry I never replied,

When you asked if i died

I had better things to do

And now my memory feels broke

Its what I tug on when I cope

Its how to get by, its how I survive

When it all seems a joke

I guess I am the punchline

Im sorry I didnt have the time

The phone works both ways

Remember those good days

Of course the fault is mine