Sweets

Little Timothy McPherson ran across a rainy road towards the local park located between West and Mystic Avenue; maybe 5 or 6 minutes away from his parents' place of residence. It was difficult enough to keep his hands out of his Velcro wallet at 11 years young, but he strived to save what he could from his biweekly allowance to buy a small bag of his favorite sweets - the ones that left his tongue sugary blue after consuming more than he should; that's if his Momma didn't find out before hand, of course. His tiny shoes reached the tiny black iron gate of the park, still running full speed towards home so he wouldn't miss his favorite TV cartoon: the one about the dog always giving hilarious chase to the house cat, partaking in all sorts of shenanigans around the neighborhood. Getting about halfway to the center of the park, his lively young eyes spotted Mrs. Emma Holston siting on the very same edge of the very same, water-damaged bench near a large and dying tree, feeding the birds as she always did every Tuesday around 10:30 in the morning. Timothy begun slowing his pace when he came closer to the tender lady. Momma always told him to be polite to his elders and Papa would never have it any other way. Tightly grasping his bag of sweets, Timothy thought of all the times he approached Mrs. Holston, realizing it was just about enough times to be certain of three things in particular about her. One: she would always hand him a generous chunk of the semi-moldy bread to help her with the feeding. Two: she would always ask him for the time, despite him knowing that she knew she wore a stained, but fully functional, rose gold watch which was passed down her family. But since memory didn't serve her very well… Well, it is what it is. Lastly: she would always talk about her everlasting love for Mr. Irwin Holston - who, peculiarly, was the only person in this fairly large town with that first name. She heard the boy’s footsteps fast approaching and turned her good ear towards him. "Why, why hello there, little Timothy!" - Said the fragile lady, as she struggled to steady her hand for the next toss of the bread. "Hello, Mrs. Emma. It's a pleasure to see you." - Replied little Timothy, like the truest of gentlemen. Her amber-green eyes brightened like a Texas summer with joy. She slowly tore off a corner of the bread and gently reached out to Timothy; hoping her weakly bones wouldn't give in to gravity. Timothy obliged and sat next to her, knowing he couldn’t stay for too long - otherwise, he would miss his cartoon. After a few seconds of awkward silence, the grizzled woman expectantly said: "Say little Timothy, would you kindly tell me the time? I just don’t even keep track of how long I feed these here beautiful birds.” Timothy silently chuckled to himself in all his child-like naiveté, but quickly covered his mouth to not appear disrespectful. “Sure, ma’am. It is close to 10:35 in the morn.” – He responded.

“Pardon?” – She replied, shuffling to bring her almost good ear closer to Timothy.
“10:35 in the morn, ma’am.”
“Oh! Goofy me, Timothy.” – Exclaimed Mrs. Holston. “I completely forget I have my watch right here. These wrinkly ol’ wrists of mine are losing their feeling, I suppose!”  
She shuffled back to her side of the bench, struggling to keep her pale, shaky and vascular wrist steady to get a good look at her watch. “Well, let’s see, here.” – She said while squinting and adjusting her big reading glasses. “Oh my, 10:36 in the morn. It is quite early… Is it not, little Timmy?”

Timothy shook his head in agreement, taking only one of the sweets from inside his paper bag. When she saw that, a smile formed on her purple-ish, flaky lips, as this reminded her of the love of her life; Mr. Irwin Holston.

Timothy grabbed hold of his striped suspenders, eager to hear yet another awe-inspiring anecdote from their undying romance. “Oh, youth.” – She sighed. “Those, now those, were amazing days. I remember the time when my love, Mr. Holston, first shared a piece of candy with me back in 1905. Well, I don’t recall them coming in the crazy shapes that they do nowadays.” She went silent for a second, smiling again and continuing on: “I think his eyes looking into mine were sweeter than the candy itself. Oh, that man, little Timmy… He was sent from heaven. If you keep being the good boy that you are, someday, you’ll make someone as happy as he has made me. And I tell you this with truth, little Timmy, it will be the most wholesome feeling you could ever wish to experience. It is a good thing to give and that’s what we’ve been doing for almost 46 years.”

Timothy, as usual, was mesmerized. He smiled at her when he hopped from the soggy bench, taking every word from this story – like all the others – with utmost admiration. Before he could tell her that he must be off, she looked around, exclaiming again: “Oh! Timmy! Before you head on, would you kindly give this note to him? I think, I think, maybe… Hm.” – She paused, hesitantly. Timothy was a little confused, but he didn’t want to be rude and refuse to help the older lady out. “Ma’am, if I see him, I’ll be sure to give it. You can count on me!” – He answered. Mrs. Emma’s face lit up again like a Christmas tree. “Oh! Oh, Timmy, you are such a wonderful, wondrous boy! Thank you, kindly. Your mother is so lucky to have raised such a generous boy.”

She reached for her pocket and gave him the brownish note, trying to sneak some pocket money with it for little Timothy as well. He respectfully took it and waved the lady goodbye, speeding off through the park to find Mr. Irwin Holston. Funny enough, Timothy only knew of Mr. Holston through his wife, but has never really spoken with him. This would be a first for both of them. Timothy ran past the buzzing and chatter of the local barber shop and made a small detour to find Mr. Holston at the convenience store where he worked. You could see a bit of sunlight shining through the clouds and bouncing off the puddles on the ground. Timothy knew exactly who to look for, thanks to the way Mrs. Emma described him in the past: Short and skinny, with two anchors tattooed on his forearms, just like Popeye from TV. He wore his favorite soft pink shirt on most days and anyone with a working nose could smell the aftershave all over it. To Timothy, aftershave sounded icky, but Mrs. Emma loved it, of course. She clearly loved everything about him. Timothy used his free hand to reach for the handle and walked inside the small convenience store. The first thing he looked at was the digital clock bolted to the wall – which read 10:50 a.m. My goodness, had time flown by! He only had less than 10 minutes before the cartoon started. Unfortunately for him, there was already one more person in line ahead of him, but Timothy was always taught by Papa that patience is a virtue. So he quietly waited until it was his turn, still praying and itching that he would make it in time.

Once the person in front moved away, he walked up to Mr. Holston and introduced himself; still like the truest of gentlemen: “Hello, Mr. Holston. My name is Timothy McPherson. Mrs. Emma wanted me to give you this note, sir.”

The old coot stared at him in a curious manner, alternating scratches between his balding comb-over and scruffy, snow-colored 5 o’clock shadow. “I’m sorry, there, young feller… Tell me, who is this, ‘Mrs. Emma?’” – He asked.

Timothy, like most people would, assumed Alzheimer’s must have made a home from the old man’s brain cells. But, not to be rude, he empathized and replied: “Well, sir, your wife, Mrs. Emma, wanted me to give you this. Please have it.” – And he held the note out to him. Mr. Irwin laughed loudly until he coughed up some of the leftover dip in his mouth; scaring Timothy a bit. “Oh, kiddo! That’s a knee-slapper, there, haha! Good grief! Ahem, well! No, I’m sorry… Sorry, but I don’t have a wife. Never have!” – Said the old Navy veteran, lifting his naked ring finger and showing off his faded blue anchor tattoo. “Are you sure you’re talking to the right guy here? I’ve been a sailor for 30 some years, boy. And not to brag, but see, I’ve been with many gals… Plenty of ‘Emmas’ I’m sure. Hehehe!” - He added; laughing and choking again on his own blackened spit. Wambling over to Timothy, he handed him a piece of chocolate and finally said: “Alright, alright, off you go. Healthy laugh, healthy soul, but tell this ‘Emma’ I said hello. I have a business to run here. Now, shoo. Shoo!” – Escorting the completely confused Timothy into the street and locking the door behind him. Timothy stared at the rainy road once more, still holding on to his little paper bag and the wrinkled note – trying his hardest to process what just happened. His young mind knew better than most when it came to prying inside the secret affairs of others, but this needed an explanation. When he unfolded the note, he was instantly attacked with the smell of pomegranate and lavender perfume, while his sapphire eyes gazed upon the timeless and feminine cursive lettering… It read the following:

~Dear Irwin:
I’ve been deathly afraid to tell you, but my mind and health have already lost the battle. I’ve no less than a couple of hours, I’d say, so it’s either now or never: I’ve loved you for as long as this old heart has been able to beat. Months… Years… My one and only wish is that you get this and know that you’ve brought me an equal amount of joy and sorrow – not because of all the girls you attracted, but because I never mustered the courage to be one of them. I suppose decades in silence and distance did me no good. I’ll miss you dearly. You were always the one thing Alzheimer’s could never erase. As the French would say during your deployment: ‘Au revoir.’

Always loving, Ms. Emma Grace.

The bag of sweets soaked in the puddle at Timothy’s feet as he tearfully pounded on the door. Mr. Holston rushed to him, thinking he’d gotten badly hurt – which he wouldn’t really be wrong. After reading the note, they hopped in Mr. Holston’s beat up little beetle; racing through a red light just to arrive at the park where Ms. Emma sat earlier.

Nearly throwing themselves out of the car, Timothy got a head start running full speed across the rainy road and towards the tiny black iron gate. Slowing down and inching closer, he could still see her sitting on the very same edge of the very same water-damaged bench near a large and dying old tree. Birds fed on the crumbs that remained in her ever steady palm.  



Gosh, it was already 11:06 in the morn. What kind of 11 year young watches cartoons anymore, anyway?