Family Memories

Jules woke to the sound of his alarm clock beeping. He rolled over in bed, tapped the off button and yawned. Jules had a plan to go to the post office before Ako arrived at 10. He needed to send Reva a package of small items she’d collected from the guest room/storage room when she visited over Thanksgiving. Reva was slowly removing items from his home. She’d taken some things back to Philadelphia with her but she’d placed the rest into a brown box. She emailed asking if he could ship the box this week.

After his shower, Jules peeled a banana while the coffee was percolating. He went into the guest room and peered into the box. There was Reva’s old cassette Walkman—the thing still worked!—and a bunch of mix tapes she’d made as a teenager. The black headphones didn’t look comfortable. Next to it was Jules’ ancient sky-blue tennis headband. “Why would she want that ratty old thing?” Jules thought to himself. In the corner of the box was a small rectangular photo album Jules hadn’t looked at in decades.

He picked up the album and peered into it. Pictures of Nina and Phillip holding Reva as a baby. Jules flipped through and found a set of photos from an amusement park.

There was Reva riding a spinning teacup with Uncle Morty, whose head was thrown back in euphoria. He flipped again. Reva, maybe seven, riding a painted horse at the carousel, waving at Jules. He remembered that carousel.

Closing his eyes, Jules imagined that sweltering August Sunday. Lisa had been out of town, visiting her sister for the weekend. He’d taken Reva out to the diner for blueberry pancakes in the morning, and then they headed to the nearby mini-amusement park. Jules recalled holding the camera with sweaty palms in the afternoon heat. They shared popcorn afterward. He wouldn’t let Reva eat cotton candy. “Pure sugar,” he’d told her. “If you eat too much, you won’t have any teeth left.” After her protests, they sat in the shade, munching on the buttery popcorn.

The images disappeared from his mind as Jules zoomed back out. “How strange, the things that stay with us,” he thought. That was a good day. Jules found himself wanting to keep the picture of Reva on the carousel. Instead, Jules wrote on a little yellow Post-It. “Would you send me this one in an email? I remember the day!”

Jules sighed. He was glad Reva wanted to hold onto these things. At some point, she’d need them simply to remember the phases of her own life, too.

What about the people that lived their entire lives with no photographs, no letters or papers? No written words? Did those long-gone people have a different idea of their memories as they came to the end of their lives? With no anchors to remind them, maybe they lived without fear of losing their memories. Maybe us modern folks all hold on too tightly.

Jules had gone out and bought the Sunday Los Angeles Times last weekend. He took a few pages from the business section and balled the newsprint up to keep the items in the box from flying all over the place. Jules wasn’t all that sentimental about most objects, though he hated not being able to find things. That problem had grown worse over the last few years. Jules held the box closed and used the packing tape to seal it up. He got out the black sharpie from a kitchen drawer and then thought, “What is Reva’s address?”

He went over to his computer and opened his email. He didn’t want to call or text Reva about her own address. He searched at the top of the email “Reva” and “address.” There it was. He clicked on the email.

Jules wrote the address on the box, then wrote his own information in the top left corner. Now he just needed to get to the damn post office and back before Ako arrived at 10. He looked at his watch. It was quarter past nine. Jules thought he’d make it.

When he got to the car, he saw it was unlocked and someone had been inside. Must’ve been overnight, thought Jules. The middle console had been rifled through and things were scattered all over the passenger seat. The glove box was hanging open.

“What the hell happened here!?” Jules shouted into the empty car.

Jules locked the car and went back inside. Jules called Seamus. He didn’t want to worry Reva. In five minutes, Seamus drove over, his face still foamy with bits of shaving cream.

“You didn’t have to rush. Could’ve finished shaving,” Jules said.

“My friend was in trouble!” Seamus mock-shouted.

Jules and Seamus got into the car.

“You’ve been ransacked!” Seamus shouted. “Did you have any money in here?” he asked.

Jules shook his head. “No! I keep my money in my damn wallet. Oh maybe a few bucks when I get change at the drive-thru,” Jules explained.

“Any valuables? Phones? Gold bars?” Seamus mocked.

“No, you idiot! The thief probably just stole gum and mints and pens. It’s just the idea, you know? I’ve been invaded,” Jules said, with some level of disbelief.

Jules put everything back in its place and then checked the trunk. Nothing was different back there.

“I understand. Shitty feeling. I’m sorry, friend. You know, that was my favorite arcade game! When I discovered a local arcade after we moved to Connecticut. Space Invaders.” Seamus amazed himself.

Jules said nothing, looking at his friend strangely, as if he were an escaped mental patient.

“Well, I’m glad you’re okay. Want to get a late breakfast?” Seamus asked.

“Can’t today. I’ve gotta get to the post office and mail Reva this package. Then Ako is here at 10,” Jules said.

“Ah. That’s a shame. I’ll go with you to the post office anyway. Maybe I’ll buy some stamps,” Seamus said.

“Alright. Let me get my coat and hat,” Jules said, walking up his steps.

Seamus hummed the music to the Space Invaders game.