The old man sat on his chair, taking in these long familiar sensations, waiting. He sighed, slowly leaning back into his chair, with both it and himself creaking as he settled. Smoke emanated from the small iron oven across the room, creating wistful images that only he could see: long past memories, with him the last holder. Against the wall between him and the oven stood drawers, containing what little articles of clothing and trinkets he had left. His bed, tucked and neat as it could be, lay next to him covered in his favorite flowers. Flowers he hadn’t seen in a while. In the middle of the room was the table of this place, always holding that day’s meals in the morning whenever he woke up.
He didn’t know where this place was, this small room. He could walk around outside on the small plateau that held this room and the outhouse all he wanted, and yet all he would see were the clouds below. Those thick, unyielding, constant clouds. He’d stopped looking after a while—the clouds, while beautiful, alluring, provided a sense of…discomfort. Unease. As if you knew you should know what was down below, as if you yourself were once down there. Early in his time at this place, he tried to climb down. Yet before he had even gotten his body over the edge, his body had failed him, and he collapsed. He had awakened the next day in his bed as if nothing had happened. He hadn’t remembered how he had got there. He didn’t remember many things then, and that continued even now. Was he remembered? If so, what was he remembered for? His glories, his accomplishments? His triumphs?
…His sins?
The old man finished settling in his chair, holding the one possession he cared for: a drawing. It was getting smudged, blurrier, he feared, but there was nothing he could do—nothing but hold it gently, softly, promising that if he had to remember but one thing, this would be it. He brought it up in front of his face, and looked upon it tearfully, soaking in the warm smile, the soft eyes through blurry vision. He had a feeling about this day. He couldn’t figure out what, but he knew something, something important, was going to happen.
He tried to speak, but nothing came. He hadn’t spoken in a long time. He cleared his throat and tried again.
“I remember you, but not myself.” he croaked. He couldn’t speak firmly, which he vaguely recalled being one of his strengths. But he could still speak at all. That was enough.
“How strong an impact you must’ve had on me,” he continued, voice growing steadier, “For that to happen. I wish I remembered. I wish I knew why.”
He grew quiet, staring at the drawing. It was a simple drawing of a person, a bust. Incredibly drawn—by his own hand? Someone else’s? He couldn’t remember. The person in the drawing always seemed to be smiling directly at you, a warm, caring smile that seemed to say, “I know your faults, I know your vice. But I know your strengths, I know your heart. That is what counts, that is what is beautiful.” He didn’t remember how he had met this person, but he wished he did.
He started speaking again, “Why is it that I can’t even remember myself, but I remember you? Shouldn’t, as one fades like I am, the last they remember be themselves?” He sighed, then chuckled lightly, “I have a feeling you would’ve laughed at that, but I don’t remember why.”
He grew silent, then carefully got out of his chair, still holding the drawing. He made his way to the only door of his room, and went outside. He made his way to the edge, looking beyond the horizon. He looked back at the drawing after some time, and continued:
“I wish I knew why I was here, why I’ve been isolated like I have—if I’ve been forgotten. I remember that earlier in my life, I had grand accomplishments. Well, actions that I found to be so. I’ve forgotten what those were exactly, just that I had them. And yet, while I forget my life’s work, I remember you. Why?”
He stopped speaking again. He just stood there on cliff’s edge, holding the drawing, staring at it.
“Well, even you I don’t remember everything about. Was I related to you? Did I love you? Are you even alive, still?” He paused, then spoke softly, “Why can’t I remember anything important?”’
Wind blew across the small plateau. Odd.
“I do know enough, however, to know you were—are—something: a friend. A friend then, and a friend now, even if it’s just through a proxy.” Tears welled up in his eyes, “Thank you. I have a feeling I don’t deserve it.”
He turned around, intending to go back to his little room, when he saw something new for the first time in a while: a storm. A massive storm
“Ah,” he said, resolved, “That’s what I felt.”
He walked back to the edge, then held the drawing over the clouds.
“I’d rather you, drawing—friend—survive than rip apart in my hands, for what you hold is much more important than I. That much I can remember, that much I know. I have a feeling that this storm won’t reach below these clouds,” he softly chuckled, “And my feelings have been right recently.”
He looked down, and hesitated. He didn’t want to give it up, it was a memory made paper, unique among what little he had—no. No, this memory surviving was worth more than he.
“Clouds,” he whispered, “I’ve never requested anything from you, but please listen this once: try not to damage this drawing too much, will you?”
He dropped it. The drawing slowly made it’s way down, down, down, until the clouds swallowed it whole. He could already feel his memory of that face fading, no matter how hard he tried. He consoled himself in remembering his friend, even while forgetting what they looked like.
Preservation done, he walked back inside, grabbed his chair, and with some effort, dragged it outside. He sat down, both he and the chair creaking for the last time, and waited for the storm to hit.