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Past Caring by J. Scott The old man had stories, hundreds of stories, he loved to tell them at every opportunity . But he was old, and he forgot that everyone had already heard his stories . They had heard all of his stories, and they had heard them several times. He was old, and he forgot. It was because of his forgetfulness that he had to tell those stories. They were things he had to remember. They were about his Dad, and his sister Margaret, and Sara. They were about working at the mill to save the money to pay off the farm, and how they used to plow with horses in the old days, and the time the river got up almost as high as the Shaffer's house. Those stories were his life, his whole life; and if he didn't keep telling those stories, everything would be forgotten, even by him; and he would drift like a lost soul, like Margaret in the nursing home. He didn't want that. He had to tell those stories. He had to anchor himself in his past; he had to 21 remind himself of who he once was, even if he was nobody in particular anymore. Steve said, "Lord, he must have told that one at least fifty times," and the old man overheard him, and he was hurt. He was hurt not by Steve, but by the truth of what Steve said. Because he knew, of course, he knew that everyone had heard his stories. But he blocked it out. He wouldn't think about it. If he didn't tell his stories,what would he have to say? Who would he be? At seventy-four, he knew his lifetime was behind him, not ahead. He was made of stories, not of future. He had to tell stories. Still, he knew that no one was listening anymore, and lately he had begun to fear that sometimes he wasn't listening himself . Maybe it was time to be quiet, and to drift. What did it matter, after all? Was Margaret, who remembered neither sorrow nor joy, any less happy than himself? He couldn't say. The past was becoming a burden to him, that he could say, and there were at least a few pieces of it that he wouldn't mind leaving behind. It was the sad things he forgot about first, beginning with the death of his wife. Many, many times he'd told of how he found her unconscious in her flower garden and rushed her to the hospital, only to have her die an hour later. It was such a sad story, and no one really liked sad stories, so he forgot it. He forgot it so completely that he would come home from fishing thinking that Sara would be fixing supper. Sometimes he waited for hours before finally going to bed without any supper. He forgot the other sad things, too; and then he started to let go of the happy things. He'd start telling about the time he and John were trying to chase the skunk out of the barn, and then he would notice the expression on everyone 's face, and Steve's words would come back to him. He would just let the story trail off into nothing. Sometimes a niece or a granddaughter would ask him what happened next but he'd say, "No, no-I forget." He began to forget more and more, faster and faster. Whole years fell away from him, and it made him feel strangely giddy. He sank into forgetfulness like a drunkard in a wine barrel, and he thought that it was not unpleasant. He could sit on the porch for hours now, staring at the river, just feeling the sun on his face, with never a thought or memory to disturb his peace. And if someone came to sit with him, he didn't have to talk. They didn't expect him to talk anymore. They just sat with him. They talked to each other. "I think Grandpa is feeling pretty good today." "Yes, he looks just fine." And he did feel just fine. He...

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