Memories

He had always been alone. For as long as he could remember, and only a vague memory of his mother, to which he would reply,

"No, Mom, I won't cook dinner today. I'll just grab a bite at the bar downstairs today, and that'll be enough for me.

" "But son, maybe at least some broth. It's so healthy," his mother would say.

"Bullion tomorrow, Mom. Besides, I'm a grown-up now and have the right to decide for myself what I eat and what I don't. I've asked you so many times. "

"Okay, but if you want, I can...

" "Thank you."

He would then turn away from the mirror and, with his beret securely fastened, go out into the street in search of adventures, which would, of course, come to him. Because what can one do in retirement, with no friends or strangers? Exactly.

Sometimes, when he sat on a park bench, memories of his brother would come to him and,

"How are you? Why don't you come to see us?" his brother would ask.

"You know, there's a lot of work to do with these adventures and you don't really…"

"Stop it, you're always talking like that, but you're not actually doing anything. Could you come over, damn it! "

"Okay, okay. I'll visit you… what day is it today?

" "Sunny.

" "No, I asked about…

" "I know what you asked about. You, with your sense of humor… Tuesday. Today, dear Albert, is Tuesday. Sunny Tuesday," and he gestured to the beautiful sky.

"A bit chilly, though… Maybe Friday?" Albert grabbed his shirt around the neck and held it there.

"You with these colds. Just don't let it get to Friday, or you'll sneeze at dinner, just like last time.

" "But what can I do, dear Staś, when it happens so often?" he shrugged, and a woman passing by with a stroller looked at him and smiled.

Then, at the bar, over the now-cold soup:

"Honey, I'm eating here because you stopped cooking for me," he scoffed.

"Because what I want to cook for you, you immediately turn up your nose and say 'this and that,' and 'that.' How am I supposed to cook for you?

" "You with your oriental cuisine. I love our fatty European food, not rice and rice. I always say...

" "It's okay. I'll make you a steak tomorrow. Is that okay?" she smiled beautifully.

"Do you even remember what it looks like and how it...

" "You grumpy old man," she patted him on the shoulder, "of course I remember. Besides, you'll see tomorrow. "

And tomorrow was Wednesday, and he happened to remember his high school friend.

"Oh, how nice to see you! What are you up to, old man? We haven't seen each other in ages!" he shouted.

"Oh, it's been a long time. But everything's fine, and I'm just a little alone," Albert groaned.

"Alone? Well, let's go for a beer. There's a bar here soon, and we can talk and warm up."

He returned home late, but in a great mood. As usual, at the door, he was met with the memory of his neighbor, who gave him a grim look and said,

"You old hag. Drunk again. What will become of you?"—and slammed the door. Albert always wanted to tell her that he was already there, and there could be nothing more, except those adventures he somehow, even by accident, never managed to embark on, but she always came first, and he always had to settle for a furtive spit at the door with the number fifteen.

Then a deep sleep, and children running around somewhere by the sandbox and swings. He even smiled and called one of them to sit on his lap and he would tell him a story, because after all, they were his children, and only his.

A shuffling sound woke him. He was startled, but then he saw his eldest daughter cleaning the room. His room.

"What are you doing, little girl?" he asked, sleepy and a little dazed.

"I'm cleaning, Daddy." You're such a mess, as usual," she said, kissing his forehead.

"I know, but I can't seem to get around to it.

" "So that's why I'm here.

" "And how are my grandchildren?

" "Fine, although they both caught colds recently." She tossed a few dirty socks into the laundry basket.

"Then make sure..."

The first ray of sunlight woke him. It was different. Perhaps intrusive, perhaps hotter than the first ray of sunlight on an autumn Thursday should be. He got out of bed and shuffled to the bathroom. The face in the mirror looked rather dull today. Ah, that dream. A beautiful dream... He just brushed his teeth and splashed water on his face. Enough. Now for breakfast.

At the bar, he encountered the memory of his father, but he didn't notice. They had been arguing, and he knew it was his fault, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Maybe this time? Get a grip and come over, it's been so many years. He stood up. He stood up and put his foot down and opened his mouth, but he didn't hear his own voice. He knew he was no longer standing, and at the same time, he felt a blissful warmth spread across his chest. It must be that sunbeam still scorching. It was definitely too hot. Very hot.

When he opened his eyes, he saw a table leg and dirty floor tiles. He thought he'd never noticed them before. Strange. He wanted to get up, but, without knowing why, someone patted him on the head and told him to take it easy. Then a kiss on the forehead, and his mother with a bowl of soup, and his brother, saying tomorrow was Friday, and what a happy birthday, and a friend who had just walked in, and his father's hand, but he couldn't shake it because...

Three days later, the funeral. The priest gave a short sermon, and the earth fell hollowly against the coffin. They were already lowering it. Someone took a shovel and covered it. The priest left with the altar boy, and the cry of his daughter, nestled in her mother's black sweater and holding her grandfather's hand, echoed among the few graves. His brother also furtively wiped a tear away and said something to the two rascals, their noses running again.