Museum of Memories

 By: Holly Ellison

They are old and grey. Wrinkled and stooped but full of stories. This one sits in the shadows of a dimly lit bar on a wet cobblestone street, holding dead roses in his lap. I almost miss him. Taking a ten-dollar bill from my pocket, I crouch down and gently place it onto one of the passed flowers. 

His eyes lock onto mine. “They were beautiful.” 

“The roses?” 

“No, my family.”

“Your family?”

“Yes, my wife and two daughters.” He nods. 

“I’m so sorry.” I know it's not enough to say, but it's the only thing I can conjure up. 

“What happened?”

“A car accident–drunk driver.”

“Did they ever catch the driver?” 

“No, he wasn't hurt. He ran off.”

“How did you end up here?” I wave in the general area. 

“The smell drew me in.”

“What?”

“On Saturday nights, they serve hot dogs with sauerkraut. It was my father's favorite. He was a night watchman at a jewelry store. When he came home after his shift, Mother would always have two hotdogs loaded with her sauerkraut and a beer ready for him.”

“On Thursdays,” he continues, “I head to a restaurant in Battery Park. Their chicken reminds me of my mother. She would fry up a whole chicken on Thursdays for dinner. Oh, her mashed potatoes were so sweet and smooth. I wish I had never grown up.” 

“Don't we all sometimes?” I chuckle. 

“How long have you been on the streets?”

“Twenty-eight years.” He looks at me with a hint of a smile, his weathered eyes creasing. 

“Believe it or not, I used to be a cartographer. I’ve mapped every street in this city. I loved it,” he states wistfully. “Things were constantly changing. It was up to me to keep the maps up to date. Then things sifted, and maps became obsolete, just like my life.” 

“No life is obsolete, including yours. No matter how bad things are.”

“You know you are the first person ever to stop and talk to me. Most people just walk by. Sometimes, they toss me a dollar or some coins, but never stop.”

I feel for him. The loneliness would kill me. 

“I can’t imagine what it would be like to lose your family—especially your kids. But you have options. Places that can help you.”

“Not for me. I have to serve my penance.”

“Penance, for what?”

“I was the drunk driver.”

My mind hits a brick wall. I stare at him as his trembling hand lifts one of the blackened roses and holds it out for me to take. 

“Please,” his voice cracks, “take this and remember me.” His eyes are pleading. 

I reach out and accept his gift. “I will always remember you.”

And I do remember him. I remember him every day as I pass his black rose nestled behind a pane of glass within a gold frame hanging in the hallway of my home. 

That day, he taught me a lesson—I never walk past the old, grey, wrinkled, and stooped, hiding in the shadows. I bring them into the light because I want to know their stories.

Holly Ellison was born and raised in New York City. She’s been lucky enough to live in various countries, including France, where she wrote lyrics for French up-and-coming singers and jingles for radio stations. Holly enjoys retired life on a ranch in Montana, where she continues pursuing her writing passion. She has published works in eMerge Magazine, Written Tales, and Oakwood.