Max's Walk

George A. Yesthal

Max watched the sidewalk as he walked. The cracks, they must be avoided for some reason. He should have brought a hat. His bald pate was now feeling the heat of the sun that marked this as a beautiful early summer’s day.

What was her name? He knew she’d probably be worried about him. That’s when he loved her most; when they were apart. Although there were reasons to dally here, there was a sense of urgency. He moved on, keeping his eyes to the sidewalp…sidewalt? SideWALK. Yes that was it. That’s when he spied a most curious object. Bending down to retrieve it, he realized that it was a candy cane. Not the type with the hook on top but one of the straight variety. Mmmm, he hadn’t had one of those since…when? He new it had been a while…when he was younger for sure, but when?

His years with the Federal Bureau of Investigation had taught him a way of thinking that was always questing and analytical. But that methodology had always seemed a strain and tiring. Exhausting, really. Why couldn’t he abandon that mode of interpretation?

There was a drying residue of vanilla yogurt in his mustache this morning too, and that was mildly annoying. So what! He was retired, wasn’t he? He didn’t have to take things so seriously now. That was a comfort.

As he walked along with his new-found prize in mouth he realized that he’d been forgetting to taste it. He removed the bright red and white striped trophy for closer inspection only to discover, to his surprise, that there was a curious appendage at one end that when pressed, made another sharper appendage at the opposite end protrude. “Hmm, I shall have to inspect this closer when I have the luxury of time to do so”, he said aloud (a little too aloud) to no one in particular. “Well, off to the races”. He went to transfer the object to the pocket of his trousers when he suddenly discovered that he was wearing none. He held the item aloft and declared, “That’s why I have a shirt pocket”.

What was her name, anyway? Would she be coming back today? Probably. Today was nice. He’d last seen her on a day that was less so. He was sure of it. There was a ceremony. Long and protracted was how he’d thought of it at the time, but no matter.

On the bench at the park he was surprised to note that…screams? Where they screams? “Glad my name is Max. Max was never afraid of screams.”

Across the park was movement. Shifting sands and blots of color unsubstantiated. His face was bare. Of course, he’d forgotten his glasses and without those his distance was unreliable. There were flashes of blue, white and, was that red?

As he watched, the unsubstantiated took form and became…yes, that was her name; “Nora?”

“No, sir. I’m officer Wilcox of the New Jersey state police. Are you alright?”
……
Doctor Prescott pursed his lips and steepled his fingers as he delivered the diagnosis. “Mrs. Alchula, your father has a condition know as Alzheimer’s disease.”

Max's Walk

George Yesthal

Brodheadsville, United States

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Artist's Description

Sometimes it’s good to just let the mind wander. Sometimes, not so.

Artwork Comments

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