The Bull Who Remembered

Every morning at Maplewood Gardens, I shuffle to the dining hall like one of those creatures in my grandson's video games—arms outstretched, eyes half-closed, seeking coffee before consciousness. The nurses call it being a 'morning zombie,' but Martha just laughs and pours me an extra cup.

Martha's been my friend for sixty-two years, since we were girls jumping off the old wooden bridge into Brown's Creek. That water was cold enough to steal your breath, but we were fearless then. We're eighty-four now, and fearless has been replaced by careful—careful with our hips, careful with our hearts, careful not to dwell too long on who's not here anymore.

Yesterday, Martha asked me about the summer of 1968, about her brother's ranch where I worked that one season. I hadn't thought about Old Jack in decades—a massive bull who'd corner anyone who looked at him wrong, except Martha. She'd walk right up to him with apples in her apron pockets, scratching that impossible beast between his horns while he closed his eyes like a contented cat.

'Some things only soften for the right person,' she told me yesterday, patting my hand. 'Jack lived to be twenty-two. Never forgot Martha.'

Today we sit by the garden fountain, watching the water arc and fall, listening to children laugh somewhere beyond the fence. I'm still a morning zombie until my second cup, but Martha's here with her pocketful of patience, and somehow that's enough. Some friendships, like some stubborn bulls, only grow more gentle with time.

'More coffee, zombie?' she asks, grinning.

'Please,' I say. 'And tell me again about Jack—how he'd come running when you called his name.'

Some memories, like old friends, are worth revisiting. They keep us alive in ways coffee never could.