A Memory Of A Memory

I knocked on his door and waited.

The wind hit my neck,

And a chill ran through my bones.

After a full minute,

He finally opened the door,

And stood there,

Blinking at me,

Not saying anything.

“Er, hello?” I asked.

“Hello?” he repeated in a gravelly voice. 

“I’m here to rake your pine needles. Mrs. Bell said you needed help. You are Mr. Ogers, aren’t you?”

He didn’t say anything.

“You don’t have to pay me or anything.”

He grunted and nodded. 

Then he turned around and walked into his home. 

“Uhhh, should I follow you?” I called out. 

He grunted again, and this time I interpreted his grunt as him saying, “Of course you are supposed to follow me you friggin nincompoop.”

His house smelled old, like dust and decay—like death had already been here. I took a big inhale and plugged my nose. 

He walked straight through his living room, past his kitchen, and through the sliding glass door that led to his backyard. 

A million pine needles littered his yard. 

“Oh shit,” I said. 

He raised an eyebrow.

“That’s a lot of pine needles. I don’t ever remember seeing that many pine needles in one yard before.”

“Memories aren’t real.”

“Sorry?”

“Memories aren’t real,” he said again, offering no other explanation. He stared at me.

“Er . . . Okayyyy. So, do you have garbage bags for me? Maybe a rake?”

“You remember your last memory of your memory, which is just a memory of your last memory before that. It’s a series of mirages, and the further away we get from the memory, the more distorted it inevitably becomes.”

“Uh, Okay . . . I’ll try to remember that,” I said, attempting to turn away from him and start on the work. “You know what, I’ll just use my hands for the time being.”

“I—. . . I had a wife once. And a dog . . . I never thought I’d forget their faces . . . I never dreamt I was even capable of forgetting them . . .”

I started piling the pine needles up in the middle of the yard with my foot. He stood there, his eyes glazed over. 

“. . . I can’t remember their faces anymore . . .”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Ogers. I can’t even imagine.”

“Imagine! Think about it! If we live long enough, it is inevitable. Even our memories of our memories fade . . . The mirages don’t last . . . And soon . . . All we have left is our achy bones. And a longing for someone we barely remember . . .”

“I’m only 18, Sir . . .”

“It’s never early to think about a life well lived. What does a life well lived mean to you?”

“Er, Sir, I can barely think past today. A life well lived, huh?”

He nodded. 

I stopped. And after about ten seconds of thinking, I asked, “Can I think about it while I rake up this infinite amount of pine needles?”

He nodded and started to walk away, before he said, “Don’t forget.”

Our memories are just our memory of the last time we remembered that memory . . . What in the hell does THAT mean? I asked myself. And I really thought about it for a while. 

I spent an eternity in his backyard, raking up his damn pine needles, trying to figure out what makes a life well lived. 

I grew to hate pine trees and their damn needles. What does a tree need that many damn needles for anyway??

Every day, for an eternity, the old man asked me if I had something to say to him. 

And every day I shook my head. “Sorry, Sir, I am only 18. I don’t know much about life or how to live one.”

I was too busy thinking about what a ‘life well lived' was, to live my own life, and the sneaking suspicion that I have to live to understand what life is, plagued me like a rock in a runners shoe. And I wasn’t living anymore. 

“Sir,” I said. “I need to live to understand what a life well lived means to me.”

He studied me, before snapping his fingers. It was spring. 

We skipped past winter. 

He let me go. 

And eventually, I forgot all about that eternity is his backyard racking up those damn pine needles. 

-CH 10/21/25