“Never Forget.”

I saw these two delicately carved words embedded in the small marble monument in front of an empty lot. “Never forget.”

Grasses and mosses had grown around the base, but someone had carefully pulled the all flora away from the blunt statement. The polished cut marbles glistened in the retiring light. I, shaking slightly, ran my fingers through the carved lexis. Sighing, in sorrow or in perhaps resentment, I turned back away from the plowed plot. The cacophony of the city was all around me again, and I walked down Liberty Street, my feet tingling as they came alive after being motionless for so long. The cold November air raced through the skyscrapers as though they were a wind tunnel, and my dark coat was thrown back, revealing my well pressed, anti-wrinkle slacks to the wild, untamable elements. Thrusting my hands into my deep pockets to try to keep the coat close around me, I shrugged up my shoulders and shuffled through the crowded streets more quickly. The streetlights came on together, and the fading light went away suddenly. I squinted my eyes from the sudden plunge into light. The cars around me were going fast, and the confusion of the city seemed distant, almost as though I had transcended to a more perfect, and quieter, city.

            However the cacophony around me of yelling men, splurges of horns and cursing taxi drivers still pierced my imagined world, and this prick of sound and contempt burst my bubble of peace. The cold air was cutting my throat, as my breathing grew heavier as I walked longer. The stress on my knees reminded me of my age, and of my imperfect body.

My mind wandered, and thought of my refrigerator; it needed to be cleaned out. Frost had built up around the regulator, and the whole grain bread had fuzz that seemed to creep along, every day growing more and more green—but why get rid of the loaf, and waste the one good slice? The door had spilled sauces of various colors stuck to the yellowing white plastic, the expired medication from when I had my first knee replacement. I sighed as I realized and remembered the pain of the arthritis and the torn tendons. Thinking back to the monument’s two words of wisdom, I laughed bitter-sweetly and muttered, “Never Forget.”

 A sudden burst of current sent a shiver down my spine; making me cough as I inhaled the cold air mixed with the bitter, dirty taste of warm exhaust. The people who passed by me all seem to have the same feelings as me; for they walked with hands in pockets and were trying to move as little as possible through the unnerving bitterness.

            At last I reach my building, and I climb up the ten or so steps up to the heavy, double paned glass door. I shuffled through my pockets, feeling some change that jingled slightly as I fingered it, my lighter, trash, and at last, my keys. I drew them out and began to roll them over the ring, trying to find the right one. Sighing again, I pulled the correct key out and let the others fall back to the base of the ring. The cold door handle made my hand flinch as I forced myself to grab it. The key slid into the lock, and I almost could hear the near silent clicks of the tumblers moving into place. Turning the key, I pressed the glass paned door inward and stepped into the warm atrium. The quiet ring of the bells at the top of the entrance was the only words greeting me inside.

            I released the door and it pulled itself shut behind me. I walked to the elevator and pressed the up key, which started to glow yellow. The dingy carpeting and the peeling papers on the wall reminded me of the stock market crash. I muttered to myself,

            “Never Forget.” And almost smile at the idea of comparing the two. Surely they are of no comparison. The dinging chime of the elevator and the doors creaking open propelled me back into reality. I stepped into the elevator and the floor, covered in dirt and stains, groans with my weight. I quickly pressed “11” and take a step back to lean on the loose hand railing. As the elevator began to move, the handrail began to shake with the oscillation of the motor. The loose rail reminded me when I was ten and my bike spokes loosened and I was thrown off into a ditch were the a tree fought with my arm; the cast I wore for the next two months showed everyone who won that day.

            “Never Forget.” I almost involuntarily conversed. Breathing more irregularly, and my legs shaking uncontrollably, ever so slightly, I plunged my right hand deep into my pocket and began shuffling through, wildly and yet assured, just as the peace of nature is full of chaotic yet perfect symmetry. I felt the cold metal, and wrapped my hand around the lighter. I pulled it out, by the metal-head first. I then wrapped my hand around the black plastic casing that held the small amount of gas. I quickly flicked my thumb over the wheel. It sparked. I tried it again, this time a small reassuring flame was glowing in the dimly lit elevator. Reaching into my breast pocket of my coat, I pulled out the small, white box, water stained and battered with the top ripped off. There were three orange heads showing. I picked one out nonspecifically and raised it, along with the box and the lighter, to my lip. The lighter wheel clicked. The cigarette started to smoke. My limbs were shaking as I inhaled. The familiar taste and warmth of the waft entered into my mouth and lungs. I hesitated as my muscles relaxed before returning the almost empty box to my breast pocket and the black lighter to its pocket. The elevator’s dull bell rang out and the door began to open loudly. I drew the cigarette from my lips, it still smoldering, and exhaled as I exited.

            The hall that was now presented to me was painted tan, but was smeared with so much dust and dirt it looked more of a sickly gray. As I stepped onto the carpeting, the shag carpet crunched beneath my feet. The bright orange shag was full of crumbs and various pieces of food and debris, half chewed gum and deoxygenated shoe polish plagued one corner. After passing four unmarked doors, one of which had no knob, I turned to my own door, with a dark door handle and the boards of the door sprayed with spray paint.

            “Room 237.” I ran my fingers through my oily hair, and scratched at my stubble on my chin while digging through my pocket with my other hand. My hands, accustomed to the warmth flinched upon brushing against the cold steel key. I grabbed it with my thumb and index finger and placed the key into the tumblers. The floor was silent, and the clicking of the door and the rush of air as I opened it made a fog of dust come up. My cigarette went out. I threw it onto the floor before entering. It reminded me of the building fire down the street. Someone had dropped a fag on a polyurethane rug.

            “Never forget.” I almost chuckled.

            The room was dank and grimy. The open windows let in the bitter air and light that could barely overcome the gloomy vicinity. Instinct drove me to fold my arms and to bend slightly to warm myself as I shuffled to the cause. The casements were sticky on their tracks, and my muscles ached as the last one reluctantly closed off the bitterness and the city from the room. Casually I tossed the ring of keys off my finger onto the white tiled countertop that made up most of the kitchen area in the flat. The grout had cracked away, having been poorly installed, loosening more then one of the tiles with the gaudy pink flower patterns. I ran my fingers against the counter as I moved to the small, white refrigerator. Reluctantly touching the sticky handle, I tore it open, having to fight squinting against the sudden bright light that illuminated the scarce contents. I pushed aside a carton of milk that when pushed aside, its contents jiggled like the Jello at my aunt’s wedding. Ignoring the obviously curding milk, I grabbed a microwave dinner from the top shelf, peeling back the plastic as I leaned back away from the fridge. I placed it in the microwave that had marinara and other sauces glued to the various sides. Having pressed 5:30, I began shuffling through the drawers, scratching my leg and coughing, rubbing my hands together, trying to revitalize them. Finally, in a drawer with a dead cockroach, I found a fork, along with a rusty knife and a few dirty plates. Placing the fork next to the microwave, I checked the time, which elucidated 4:13. Crossing the small, faintly lit room, I collapsed onto the couch, which was showing it’s yellow insulation, and rested back, facing up towards the cracking ceiling. The low hum of the microwave couldn’t drown out the raised voices arguing upstairs. The flaking ceiling wasn’t reluctant to release it excess skin as they stomped around.

            The powder that chips and dust that fell from the ceiling stank of mold and was discolored.  I instinctively brushed the small powder from my soiled white shirt, sitting up as I did so, swinging my legs to meet the floor. I stood, continuing to vehemently sweep my shirt, the sudden movement making my vision darken for a moment.  The darkness made me feel dizzy; and as I began to stagger, trying to find my footing. My head was swimming; overwhelmed with my reminiscences.  I stared down at my shirt, at the foul smelling particles, still lodged in the woven shirt. Incessantly, I frantically hit my shirt to dislodge the powder plague, which blasted my mind with the anthrax powder, which had claimed my sister’s life.

“I can never forget!” I screamed while not only beating my shirt, but my head, trying to dislodge my unremitting memories, only for them to weave their way deeper into my mind, into the lace. My shoes squeaked and screeched as I tried to gather myself. The microwave timer went off, with three pings that sent my mind wheeling, and my head pounding in rhythm with each ring. My heart began to pump at a frenzied rate, as my breathing became erratic. I tried to stand in one spot, but instead fell into nothingness. Panicked I reached around to touch anything, grab anything, feel anything, be anything. The cold November air whipped through my clothing, skin, eyes, mouth and hair. The feeling was exuberating and yet haunting—the feeling enveloped my most disturbed memories, the things that I would remember forever. My eyes were watering as they tried to moisturize, being dried quickly by the rushing air. At last, I could forget. At last.

            The monument still stands near the empty lot, but now a second, in the form of a small crucifix rests, dirtied with the exhaust of cars and moss, crooked and sagging, with plastic flowers draped across. As the crowds pass it, bundled in trench coats trying to keep the winter cold from penetrating their core, they don’t bother to view closely the delicately inscribed inscription:

“Never Forget.”