Goodbye Again - Writers Forum

Azmakna · 06-30-2007, 08:01 AM

i'm not happy with this, i feel i have dealt with it too quickly.

Goodbye again

After I had placed the flowers on my mother’s grave, I could not wait to get home to see her, but I lingered a while, taking in the peace of the dead. Some had been there for centuries, others for years, and some had the dark earth of freshly turned soil. Only the ages concerned me. My mother had died at the age of sixty-seven and so there was a sense of a life lived, although others had been plucked from existence far too soon. To have experienced love and then lost it all because of a habit, was devastating enough, but to have never felt your bones ache with age, was a travesty that could never be reconciled.

I passed beneath the canopy of willow and birch as I made my way along the path to the main gate, wondering about the dead flowers upon some graves and trying to ignore the toys on others. Every week I made this pilgrimage, the sense of duty more powerful than any other emotion I had ever felt. My mother would reassure me though, offer me words that would give me strength to visit her again.

The bus driver thrummed his fingers on the steering wheel as I tried to pluck change from beneath my wallet, flicking narrowed eyes at the three passengers also waiting to get on. After I had paid and apologised, I made my way down the bus, looking for a free seat – which was difficult because every other passenger had done the same. Not able to find one, I picked a seat beside an elderly woman and sat down with my knees pointing into the aisle. She smiled at me gently and shuffled up closer to the window.

“Thank you,” I said.

“Hasn’t it been a beautiful day,” she said, still smiling.

“Been shopping?” I asked her, noting the plastic bag by her legs.

“Just a bit of something for my grandkids.”

“That’s nice, anything good?”

In luau of a reply, she plucked a pair of miniature trainers from the bag and held them up for my inspection, gripping the toes in her frail fingers.

“They’re small… how old is he?”

“She,” the old woman said. “She is two and a half next week.”

“She’ll like them.”

“I hope so.”

“She will,” I said and smiled.

For a while, we both fell silent, that awkwardness of speaking too soon and then running out of small talk, made it impossible for us to look anywhere but straight ahead. She had been so welcoming and genteel, though; that I felt obliged to speak again:

“How old are you… twenty one?”

“Give over,” she said and giggled, “I’m seventy two, but I still do all my own shopping.” She was clearly proud of her age. “Go dancing on a Saturday night, walk the dog round the woods… more than some of the young’ns do. Some of them don’t know they’re born.”

“My mother’s around your age.”

“What’s her name?”

“Jean,” I said, “Jean Carter.”

“Can’t say I know the name.”

“My dad used to take my mother dancing.”

“Oh yes, where to?”

“The old Scouts Hut down Carr lane.”

“I know the place. Just off Riby Square.”

“They tried to get me to go once, but I was a bit shy.”

“You should have gone. A handsome lad like you. Have you got any kids?”

I laughed. “No… I don’t think I’ll ever have kids.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing—”

“Anyway…” I began, as my stop approached. Then I realised how rude I must have sounded. “Sorry to cut you off…”

“Velma,” she said, realising I was searching for her name.

“Nice to meet you, Velma.”

After I jumped off the bus, I looked back at the elderly woman. She had moved further out into the seat once again and was lost to the world outside, the bag that had been down at her feet, now on her knees.

As I walked the two blocks home, I watched the bus disappear into the distance, wondering about Velma’s life and the little granddaughter; however, when it had disappeared around a corner, my thoughts were of only one thing: talking to my mother.

My mother’s house was as it had been when she died. I could never bring myself to change anything. The settee and chairs were floral to match the wallpaper, and the carpet was green to match the curtains. The hearth was crowded by copper trinkets, with a copper kettle on its copper stand, taking pride of place – a gift from my father to my mother, twenty-three years before. A picture of an auburn-haired Japanese woman with three ruby studs on her tunic hung on one wall, the spaces either side, a homage to our family tree. The only incongruity was the computer and desk I had installed a month after my mother left me. Technology had saved my life.

Forgoing tea, I sat at the computer and hit the power switch, hitching the seat closer and taking hold of the mouse in anticipation. As soon as the little egg timer had stopped turning, it launched the web browser. I moved the pointer to ‘Bookmark’ and pulled down the menu, clicking on the link that read: ‘DearlyBeloved.com’. Once the page had flicked on, I wrote in the password, ‘Jean Carter 32111’. There it was, the room, with its floral wallpaper and chairs, green carpet and curtains. A photorealistic representation of the room I was in.

All that was left for me to do now was speak:

“Hello mum,” I said and moved closer to the screen.

“Hello son,” she said, the polygons hidden beneath the reality of the image. “Have you been to visit me again?”

“Yes, I put some new flowers on your grave.”

“My favourites?”

“Daffodils and tulips, yes.”

“Thank you,” she said and sat on the armchair.

I turned to look at the armchair in my room and smiled.

“The place is just as you left it, mum.”

“That’s nice. Keeping it clean and tidy for me?”

“Hoover every day, make the bed, wash the dishes. You know the drill.”

“I did it long enough, I should do. How have you been keeping, son?”

“Fine… fine, got myself a new pair of trousers yesterday.” I stood so that the camera could see my purchase and sat down again.

“They look smart; blue was always your favourite colour.”

“They’re black mum.”

There was a momentary pause while the program updated.

“They look smart; I thought your favourite colour was blue?”

“Fancied a change.”

“That’s good; you were always stuck in your ways.”

“And who do you think I take after with that?”

“Yes, me and my routines. Got things done though didn’t it.”

“If I hadn’t had you as a mum, I think I would be living in a pig sty by now. Got to keep things neat and tidy… everything in it’s place.” It was something my mother would always say.

“Are you teasing me, you little devil?”

“Now would I do that?”

“How is your father?”

I hit pause. I couldn’t remember answering any question about my father on the bio-sheet. The administrators had told me that the program allowed for an infinite amount of possibilities, and that coupled with a groundbreaking AI system, the responses and reactions would be as near to realistic as was conceivable. But it was a question I never anticipated. What would happen if I told her he had died ten years ago?

“He’s mowing the lawn; you know what he’s like with his gardening.”

“Bless him, he loves his flowers.”

“That and exaggerating the size of the fish he caught.”

“Him and his little tales.”

“Do you remember when he came home drunk that time and I tied him up.”

“That was the only time he ever got drunk. What were you like?”

“It was funny though… he laughed about it afterwards.”

“He did, he’s a good man.”

“Can I ask you a question, mum?”

“Of course you can, darling, anything.”

“When I was at the cemetery today I saw a young couple crying over a grave… I mean, really crying. Is it okay to cry when someone dies?”

“Of course it is silly, everyone cries when a loved one dies.”

“Then why didn’t I cry when you died, mum?”

“Probably because you thought you had to be strong… and besides, I’m still here.”

“But you are at the cemetery too.”

Again, there was a pause and I knew exactly what it was. The administrators had told me that there was an ‘Imperative’ built into the system to guarantee one hundred percent satisfaction, and that at all times the AI would asses the situation and avoid allowing my mother to say anything upsetting.

“Probably because you thought you had to be strong… and besides, I’m still here.”

“The green frog hopped over the spoon and ran away with the fork.”

“Very nice, darling.”

“Sorry.”

“What for?”

“For playing tricks on you.”

“You were always playing tricks on me.” Mother laughed.
I paused the program once again and stood from the chair, walking over to the photographs of my family. On the far left, there was a photograph of me in a pram, my mother gazing into it and my father looking as proud as could be. The next photograph was of my father on a riverbank fishing, my mother bending to pick brambles. After that, there was a photograph of me as a teenager, hanging from the shoulders of my mother and father, pulling a silly face. I looked into the eyes of the Japanese woman and she looked at me. At her right was another photograph, this was of me receiving my diploma, flat hat, cape and scroll. And next to this a photograph of my mother in her wheelchair, with a purple paper hat. And then another… My mother looked so pale, so weak, but she had insisted that I took a photograph of her holding the flowers I had bought her. I remembered feeding her in that bed and tucking the pillow beneath her head.

I returned to the computer.

“You’ve been a while.”

“Yes, just saying goodbye to dad.”

“He’s finished mowing the lawn then?”

“Yes…” I looked at my mother’s face, at the perm she always had and the blue framed spectacles. “Was I a good son?”

“Oh yes, the best son in the world.”

“I didn’t do anything really bad to upset you, did I?”

“You had your moments but most of the time you were as good as gold.”

“Good, good, I’m glad to hear that.”

“We were inseparable, you and me. I took you everywhere.”

“I know, mum. You used to stick up for me at school too.”

“Well someone had to, with your dad working away a lot.”

“I did well at school though, didn’t I.”

“You did that.”

“Was you proud of me when I got my diploma?”

“So proud son, so very, very proud. I told everyone you know.”

“Yes I remember that. I used to get stopped in the streets.”

“Your father was proud too.”

“Was he? I’d like to think he would have been.”

“I love our little chats, son, you are a very special boy.”

“Thank you mum, but I’m a bit tired.”

“Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yes you will, mum… Mum?

“What, darling?”

“You where the best mum anyone could ever have. You fed me, clothed me, looked after me when I was poorly. Dad loved you more than anything in the world and he’s waiting for you now, sat up there on a bench, reading his paper and smoking his Golden Virginia. I met a woman on a bus today and she reminded me of what I haven’t got. I’d love to have a family of my own one day… to look after them and care for them just like you did me, but it won’t happen if I keep the past alive. I’ve got to move forward, mum, I’ve got to start living again. Thank you for being there.

I right clicked on the page and the menu popped up. I scrolled down with the pointer: ‘update’, ‘other information’, ‘details’, ‘subscription fees’, ‘delete’.

“I love you mum, so very, very much.”

“I love you too, son.”

“Goodbye, mum.”

Click.

As the computer screen went blank, my eyes filled with tears and I cried as I had never cried before. Everything that I had ever held onto, poured from me, my body ached with grief, with loss, with truth, but it was too late and I was glad of that.

The following day I visited my mother at the cemetery as promised. As usual, I lay her favourite flowers upon her grave, but this time I said a few farewells. This was not the end, I thought, this was a beginning, and maybe someday I will have my own family photographs upon my wall, because there was only one thing worse than death and that was for it not to inspire you to live.

The End

Mairi · 06-30-2007, 09:10 AM

Interesting. . .

I have lost a parent so I can empathize with the grief in this story.

No machine or AI can replace our loved ones. The "magic" of a program like that would play off of our own hearts. We create it with our own interpretations. We hear what we want to hear. Those that we lose still exist forever, in our hearts and minds, and also in the afterlife, I believe.

I had a conversation with a complete stranger once which changed my life. We were at a church retreat where you are supposed to find your faith and all that. He was covered in tattooes and chains, and looked the sort of person that my family would shun (my parents were the proud and rather snobbish type, though I love them dearly). We were talking about painful memories in our past, and he was crying over the loss of his mother. I told him about losing my dad, even though I had never shared this with anyone before. In that moment, we connected. We cried in each others' arms, and he told me something that I will never forget:

In memory there is no death.

Dammit. Once again, you got me thinking about my own life with your evocative and insightful words. Sorry about rambling there. I just wanted to comment on how a powerful scene with clearly drawn emotions can connect with the reader on a personal level.

That said, I think that perhaps you should tighten up the dialogue a little--still keep the mood and tone, but polish it a little so that it flows more smoothly. Say more with less.

Keep working on it--I like it!

Mairi

Funwriter · 06-30-2007, 09:11 AM

Az, very nice and I liked the technical bit. The story has a good flow and is easy to read. One thing bothered me though. You mentioned that she died early because of a habit, but never mentioned it again. What was the habit, cigarettes?

I'll go over it more when I have more time, very busy today.

Nice one.

Azmakna · 06-30-2007, 09:39 AM

ye, the ambiguity is there deliberately but i'm not sure if it works because there are very few habits that kill you. i may leave it though, because you seem to have got it. my main concern is that this story is so close to me that i want it too be longer and perfect (for my mother) i also feel guilty that my father seems to have been pushed back to a mere mention, which bothers me, because i didn't know him that well even though he lived with me all my life. Mairi is right. it does ramble a bit, so i either need to tighten the dialogue and add more detail or make the dialogue so good it compels the reader to read.

somehow, i don't think this story will ever be finished

Mairi · 06-30-2007, 10:05 AM

The best and most truthful stories never are finished.

Mairi

Azmakna · 07-01-2007, 10:32 AM

i want this one finished though... pressing 'delete' is very difficult.

Funwriter · 07-01-2007, 10:37 AM

This is good and I think complete.. Why make any huge changes. Print it, file it and be happy you got it done.

Very well done at that..

Azmakna · 07-02-2007, 12:11 PM

cheers Funwriter.

~Kouryuu~ · 07-02-2007, 01:09 PM

That made me cry.
Beautifully written, Az. Don't change a thing.
I think in a way, we all hope one day we'll be able to push delete.
I know I do.
Great work, as usual, love. :]

Azmakna · 07-03-2007, 11:51 AM

i'm glad it moved you Kouyuu. it moved me while i was writing it and while i wanted to stop to wipe my eyes, instead i continued to type. there is real grief in this for me, but i feel i have let my mother down in the 'mechanics' of it.

Funwriter · 07-03-2007, 02:17 PM

you should get this one published. I'll give you a couple of addresses if you wish.

Fossy · 07-04-2007, 02:29 AM

Beautiful! I have a lump in my throat.
I lost my brother, so I know where your'e coming from. You don't want to let go of the grief, or let them go either. Then you get angry with them for leaving you and making you feel like that (as if it's their fault) But you have to let them go without feeling guilty, even though in weird way you relish that grief because funnily enough you are getting something from it.

Only people who have lost someone can understand just what it is about grief that you love and hate.

Don't change anything. If you can prompt tears, then you've touched someone deeply.

Azmakna · 07-05-2007, 11:21 AM

glad it moved you Fossy, thank you for the compliment. i'm not entirely happy with the dialogue though, i just get the feeling it's on the twee side.

Johnna · 07-05-2007, 01:56 PM

Wow. I've never lost anyone close to me, but this piece still made my heart ache. I like the fact that he doesn't mourn after she dies; he mourns after he deletes her from the program. Of course, the grammar and dialogue needs fixing up, but even so... You're an amazing writer.

MiloDaePesdan · 07-05-2007, 07:15 PM

H'lo Azmakna.

Story works. Good concept, though nothing new. There's always been the idea of uploading a person/personality up online in a bid for immortality. (Roger Zelanzy, Gibson, and so on.) Way you told it was refreshing though. Clean.

Still hurts to lose someone.

Maybe it feels unfinished because the tension is minimal. There's always the possiblity that Jean will lose himself to the shell the AI created of his mother, the illusion, and won't be able to move on. If you want you could probably extend this, but I like it as it is.

Teensy typo:

Quote:

the AI would asses the situation and avoid

- "assess"

If it ain't broke, no fixen. Da?

Milo