Of Memory

So, this is a short story I wrote the other day, tell me what you think of it:

Time is the only reality of life, yet it is a strangely nonexistent reality: it constantly dissolves life in a past which no longer is, and in a future which always leads to death.By itself, time is nothing but a line of telegraph poles strung into the distance and at some point along the way is our death.

-Alexander Schmemann, For the Life of the World-

OF MEMORY

Time has a funny way of galloping by in great chunks while simultaneously creeping, moment to moment; whole epochs exist in the quivering of the longer hand. Anyone who has ever mowed a lawn knows what I mean by this. Medius Harper’s lawn mower sputtered to a halt. He turned to survey his handy work and saw all of the perfect, uniform eighteen inch lines robing his yard with verdant dignity. The funny thing was, he couldn’t remember having mowed any of the lines. Yet there they were, stretched out in front of him. He looked at the fence line which needed weed-eating, but decided that the newest episode of that great new cop thriller show on that one station with the letters was more appealing.

He climbed the sun faded steps of his wooden porch, and opened the sliding glass door into the family room. He made a mental note to power wash the steps next weekend and re-treat them with weather sealant. He remembered to take off his shoes and socks and carry them into the laundry room, taking caution not to drop grass on the carpet. He mounted the stairs to the top floor and entered the master bathroom. He hesitated before entering the shower, debating that question which always presents itself to the one who has engaged in manual labor: hot or cold shower? Hot will relax the muscles, but cold will reinvigorate the spirit. Medius opted for the former, as one always does, preferring comfort to stimulation.

Usually, when a person stinks of body odor, he is unaware of it. Because the smell is emanating from his own body and because it builds up steadily over time, he is inoculated by the smell. It creeps up on him, not presenting itself immediately to his consciousness but infecting the air around him. This is not the case when he has been mowing the lawn. The noxious smell of petrol-fuels mingles with the sweet yet sharp, untamed smell of fresh-cut grass and the whole thing is undergirded by a repugnant, sticky, well-earned sweat.

Medius emerged from the shower and went into his walk-in closet; the light flickered on automatically as he opened the door. He dressed himself quickly opting for jeans and a polo. He descended the stair stopping briefly in the kitchen to heat his microwavable meal and grab a few beers. He trudged to the basement, flopping himself on the micro-fiber, malaise green couch. He scooped up four different remotes and with deft skill brought the world in front of him to life. The cop show was proceeded by that hilarious new sitcom with that girl from the old hilarious sitcom, which coincidentally, was being shown on the channel Medius flipped to when there was a commercial. The news followed the sitcom and Medius switched remotes and pulled a recording of his favorite reality show from the memory banks of his cyber-friend.

After three episodes, Medius began to yawn, and figured now was as good a time as any for bed. He said good night and mounted the stairs. He detoured into the kitchen depositing the empty plastic tray from his dinner in the trash and the beer bottles in the recycling bin. He grabbed the package of processed cookies and headed for bed, taking a glass of milk with him.

Between the Egyptian cotton sheets, Medius picked up his ultra-compact notebook and caught up on his social life while munching on cookies before switching off the lights.

When he woke in the morning, Medius looked out his picture window as he stretched. The window overlooked his back yard: there were those damned lines alternating shades of green, perfect, uniform. How did they get there?