This week we are proud to publish the first of three winning essays in our recent contest.

In choosing Hildegard Hingle’s essay as the first place winner in Writing It Real’s 2013 spring and summer writing contest, guest judge Terry Persun sent these words:

This so reminded me of Nicholas Sparks. At first, I’m unsure of the relationship, but as the story progresses I get a glimpse of what the relationship in the past meant to the woman and what it meant to the man. There is a sadness and yet a sense of joy in the decisions that were made, and perhaps a sense of loyalty to the deceased wife. The language appeared to be carefully selected and the storyline eased out of the natural movement of the story. This is a piece that I could see published in a magazine already, with very little editing.

When I asked Terry what he meant by very little editing, he answered as a writer with extensive freelance experience, “…magazines edit almost everything they touch (I should know), but I didn’t think they’d find much to do with this piece.”

Here without further delay, we present Hildegard’s winning essay:

I Remember Everything
by Hildegard Hingle

When I hold onto his arm to steady him, he shakes his head. “I can still walk by myself,” he says, “It just takes me a little longer.”

The day is spotless, not a single cloud in the sky. There are only a few people in the park, scattered among the wrought iron benches that line the edge of the small lake. We make our way down to the water and settle on a bench that is halfway shaded by a tall mesquite tree. “I’ll take the sunny side,” Tom says, “It’ll be good for my bones.”

The last time we were here was in the spring of 1995, right before he moved to Seattle to live with his daughter. The day was just like today: warm, clear, radiant. We shared a picnic lunch of bagels, cream cheese and Arizona green tea, and we talked about the new life that lay ahead of him. He told me why he had to leave, and he promised he would come back at least once a year to visit.

The lake lies flat, its surface smooth and glossy, stirred up only now and then by a few ducks landing in search of food. I am not sure what to say, or how to bridge the gap of seven years since his departure, and Tom is uncharacteristically quiet. He used to have something to say about everything, but this is no longer so; now he is waiting for me to start a conversation, as if he doesn’t quite trust himself to choose the right topic, or say the right things.

 A slight breeze is beginning to stir, and Tom zips up his golf jacket. He gets chilled so easily these days, he says, he hardly knows why. His hands and feet are always cold, even on a warm day like today. “I suppose my circulation isn’t what it used to be,” he tells me, rubbing his hands together in quick succession, “but then nothing really is.” I catch a quick glimpse at him from the side, notice a hint of a smile, and I realize that my old friend is still there, just a little more restrained, a little more subdued.

“Are you up for a walk around the lake?” I ask, pointing toward the path that winds its way around the water’s edge like a pale yellow ribbon. He nods, and together we start heading down the trail. Once again I notice how unsure he is of himself, how cautious his steps are, how every few minutes he has to stop to catch his breath.

I know about his health problems, the fact that he doesn’t drive any more, the trouble he has remembering things. His daughter talked about all these things when she called me to arrange their visit. “He can’t travel by himself any more,” she said. “He gets confused too easily.” Then she added, almost as an afterthought, “You’re the main reason he is taking this trip. He is not sure how much longer he’ll be around, and he wants to see you one more time.”

Tom pulls out a neatly folded handkerchief and wipes his forehead, then carefully puts it back in his pocket. The air is noticeably warmer, now that we’ve left the shade of the mesquite trees that line part of the trail. I offer him water and he takes a drink, almost dropping the bottle before handing it back to me. “That darn hand,” he says, holding it up for me to see, “sometimes I have hardly any feeling there at all.” His fingers are curled, crippled by arthritis, painful to look at. I take his hand, and we continue down the path in silence.

I remember the first time I held his hand, the day he returned home after burying his wife. All my training as a hospice volunteer had not prepared me for this moment, the day after the funeral, when Tom would be returning to an empty house. It was only ten days until Christmas, and we were sitting in his Arizona Room, on the bamboo sofa by the picture window, watching the sunset. Within a few minutes the sky turned dark red, the color of a blood orange, then quickly faded into darkness. I was searching for the right things to say, for words to comfort him, but instead he ended up comforting me. “These things happen, you know,” he said, not a trace of self pity in his voice.

Sitting outside on his patio on hot summer nights, watching the monsoon rains sweep through the valley, he would tell me about growing up in a small town in Illinois during the Great Depression. I could easily picture him at the age of twelve, taking care of an ailing mother and two younger sisters, working the fields instead of playing football with his friends.

A school of glistening minnows, darting in and out of the water, has caught his eye now, and Tom stops to take a closer look. “I think they’re hungry,” he says, reaching for the plastic bag of stale bread we brought along. He tears off small chunks, rolls them into little balls and tosses them into the water. Most of the bread lands too close to shore, where the fish are unwilling to venture, but he is undeterred. “They’ll get to it eventually,” he says, “You watch.” I hand him another slice of bread. Only after he is finished throwing the last scrunched-up bits into the water is he ready to move on.

“Do you remember the last time we were here?” I ask. He looks at me, shakes his head.

“There was more water in the lake back then,” I tell him. “I think the city had to drain it recently to clean out the algae. It was getting to be a big problem.” Tom smiles, nods.

“You used to tell me about this Japanese fish that eats nothing but algae,” I remind him, hoping to trigger a memory of some kind. He walks on in silence, and I’m not sure he heard what I just said. We pass by another bench, and I ask if he would like to take a break and have a sandwich. He eats slowly, wipes his mouth after every bite with the back of his hand; still, a few crumbs are left clinging to the corners of his mouth when he has finished.

I remember how meticulous and fussy he used to be, how carefully he used to dress, how he would iron and fold his clothes. One day I stopped by his house and found him separating his laundry into neat little piles, not satisfied until the last sock had found its match.

A few puffy cumulus clouds have appeared out of nowhere and are blocking out the sun. I ask Tom if he wants to turn around, but he shakes his head. “I can make it all the way,” he says, “as long as you’re in no hurry.” I think of the bank deposit I have yet to make, the bills that need to go out in today’s mail, the trip to the grocery store. He is looking at me, waiting for an answer. I tell him that we have all the time in the world.

“How are your grandchildren doing?” I ask.

“Oh, Timmy is just fine; he is going to pharmacy school, and I’m sure he’ll do well. But Brandon, that’s another story. He’s run away a couple of times. Once we didn‘t hear from him for almost four months. We were all worried sick. But now he is home again, and I’ve had a couple of talks with him; I think I can still straighten him out.”

“And what’s Amanda up to these days?”

Tom looks at me funny, as if he has no idea who I am talking about.

“You know, your granddaughter, the one who lives in California. You went to her wedding back in ’93, and it was this big affair on a boat, with more than three hundred people, a live band, and I think you even mentioned fireworks.”

He looks even more bewildered, obviously does not remember a thing. Only now do I realize how fragmented his memories have become, how he is struggling to recall places and names that somehow seem to have slipped from his mind as if they never existed at all. I have to remind myself that this is the same man who used to tell me detailed stories about his years in the Navy, the day he met his wife, the time he lost his business.

What, if anything, does he still remember about me? Maybe I’m nothing more than a familiar face now, a vague reminder of a time when he was still in charge of his life, when he felt strong and capable and never wasted a minute thinking about getting old.

“I’ll have to ask my daughter about that. She’ll know,” he finally says, satisfied that he will figure this out eventually.

I quickly change the subject, point out a lizard that is sunning itself on a rock, and we walk on in silence. A strange feeling has taken hold of me, a disappointment of sorts, but it’s more than that. I am beginning to realize that the closeness we once shared is gone, the memories of our time together irretrievably lost in the desert his mind has turned into, and I’m afraid that I will eventually forget as well: Forget the day he helped me prune the tangled mess of English Ivy in my backyard. Forget the day he showed me how to cut a cantaloupe into perfect little squares. Forget the day he taught me how to use a pipe cutter to fix the broken water line for my swamp cooler.

There is something else that bothers me more than I care to admit: the consummate caretaker is helpless now, no longer in charge of his life. Once strong enough to single-handedly take care of his ailing wife, he is now very much dependent on others to help him through his days.

We have almost completed our stroll around the lake. Tom stops every two or three minutes to point out something that has caught his eye — a bird circling high up in the sky, a storm cloud building up in the distance — but I know he is simply tired and too proud to admit it. In a few minutes we will head back to my house and wait for his daughter to pick him up, and that will be the end. I wonder how long he will remember this visit.

He looks tired now, and doesn’t seem to mind when I hold onto his arm. Slowly, one small step at a time, we make our way back to the car. The clouds have dissipated, and the park is once again suffused with sunlight. Tom hesitates. He turns around to glance at the shimmering water, then gives me a quick nod. “I’m ready to go,” he says.

I turn on the radio, find the oldies station, adjust the volume. He used to tune into this station when he was working around his house, years ago. I would stop by his place and find him singing along to a Frank Sinatra or Barry Manilow tune. I wish now that I’d been able to tell him how I loved the sound of his voice; how I never felt more at home than listening to him sing; how much I loved him.

Tom hasn’t spoken a word since we left the park, and I know that we are running out of time. We are just ten minutes from my place now, driving through the old neighborhood I used to live in years ago. “My old house is just past the stop sign,” I tell him. “I’m curious if it has changed any.”

I slow down in front of the house, notice the new mailbox shaped like an owl and a big Airstream motor home parked in the driveway. Two dogs are running around the backyard, barking frantically at the strange car passing by.

“I remember the day you came here to tell me good-bye,” I say, searching his face for a sign that he remembers. “It was around ten o’clock in the morning, and you only stayed for a few minutes; but I’ll never forget the last thing you told me. You said, ‘That’s enough to…’”

“That’s enough to make a grown man cry.” His voice is strong and clear, and he is looking straight at me. I don’t know what to say or do. My heart is suddenly beating furiously, and all the things I thought I’d lost come rushing back to me in that one instant.

“I remember everything,” he says. Slowly, gently, he brushes back a strand of hair that has fallen over my eyes.