The Last Lunch

Arthur placed the fedora on the coat rack—it was his father's hat, the one he'd worn every Sunday to church, every wedding, every funeral. Now it belonged to Arthur, though he felt like an imposter wearing it. He was sixty-five, same age his father was when the dementia started taking things away, piece by piece.

The restaurant was dimly lit, candles flickering on red-checked tablecloths. Across from him sat Elena, the hospice nurse who had cared for his father during those final months. She was maybe forty, with weary eyes that had seen too many endings.

"You didn't have to buy me lunch," Elena said, slicing through her salmon.

"I wanted to thank you," Arthur said. "For making his last months peaceful. For reading to him when I couldn't be there."

She nodded, accepting this. They ate in silence for a moment. Arthur peeled an orange, the citrus scent sharp and bright against the restaurant's murk. His fingers were stained with juice.

"He talked about you," Elena said suddenly. "The bear."

Arthur's hand froze. "The what?"

"The bear. He said you two built a bear together, when you were little. A wooden one, for a school project. He was so proud. He said you painted it together in the garage." She smiled sadly. "He told that story his last week."

Arthur's throat tightened. He remembered the garage, the smell of sawdust and paint, his father's big hands guiding his smaller ones. The bear had been crudely made, its features lopsided, but they'd displayed it on the mantle for years—until his mother sold it in a garage sale, saying they were too old for toys. His father had never forgiven her.

"I forgot about that," Arthur said softly. "I haven't thought about it in forty years."

"That's what happens," Elena said. "The things we think we'll remember forever—they just slip away. Until someone brings them back."

Arthur looked at his hands, the orange peel bright against his skin. His father had been gone six months, and Arthur had spent that time angry—at the disease, at his mother's death five years earlier, at the quiet apartment he now returned to each evening. He'd forgotten to remember the good parts.

He picked up his glass. "To the bear," he said.

Elena clinked her glass against his. "To the bear."

And for the first time since his father died, Arthur didn't feel alone.