The bedroom was dark. Twenty years ago, when he moved into the small two-bedroom cottage, Felix had chosen the room in the northwest corner for his bedroom. Twenty feet west, on the border with his neighbor’s yard, there was a dense stand of trees. The room would suffer little direct sunlight. To insure that it stayed dark, he had installed black-out curtains over the room’s twin windows and later added two solid dark maroon curtains over them. He’d joke to an occasional visitor, “I was afraid that anything lighter would cheer up the room. Bedrooms are for sleeping!”

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Felix was one for sleeping. He admitted he led a privileged life but was quick to add, “I have a heavy responsibility. I have a passel of memories that I need to keep alive!”

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It was no wonder that minutes, and still more minutes went by without the incessant pounding on the front door intruding on the sleeping Felix. Besides being the darkest room in the house, it was also the furthest removed from the front door. Years ago, when the doorbell broke, or the dry cell got disconnected, Felix remarked, “I have no use for it. When I’m home, I’m home,” implying that when he was home, he had better things to do than chatter with the Fuller Brush person or a soliciting religious organization. “I’ve more than ample toothbrushes and my soul is saved by memories.”

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But finally, some of the pounding caused Felix to slightly open his right eye. And since he was sleeping on his right side, he grunted and rolled onto his back so he could stare at the ceiling, debating if this was a must-needs moment. He twitched his nose, searching for smoke, and smelling none, decided there was no urgent need to rise. My time is better spent with my passel of memories. At some point today I will have to eat, and the kitchen stores so many memories. For that I need to be fully rested and wide awake. And with those thoughts he rolled once again onto his right side and went back to sleep.

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The pounding continued, though, and was soon incorporated into his dreams: heavy boxes of memories, lifted and moved around the house. Pick up and drop, pick up and drop. Felix didn’t begrudge the exercise. The previous Guardian of Memories had repeatedly told him, “A memory not picked up, moved, and used is soon lost.” Felix was determined not to let that happen on his watch. This was the perfect time to move all the cartons with his teenage memories from the dining room into the spare room.

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They were heavy memories. Felix had struggled through adolescence never having learned social skills; he was especially awkward around girls. In some boxes there were only a couple of pages. One box contained only one sheet with two words: Senior Prom.

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He turned onto his left side. His memory was clear about this. Memories between the time you must shave twice a week and when you grow a beard are best remembered on your left side. In no case should you be sleeping on your stomach if you’re going through memories of your pubescent years. Memories of Mother are to be reviewed only while sleeping on your back. These became THE RULES.

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There were two-dozen more rules of a similar nature posted about the house. Felix had to score 70% on the RULES TEST before he was entrusted with memories. But now that they were under his care, he was told adjustments could be made. “After all, Felix, it’s a well-known fact that people remember things differently.”

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There may have been another blunt bang or two on the door but by this time Felix was lost, deep in memories of when he was 17, trying to build up courage to ask Cindy to the Senior Prom. His acne had gotten progressively worse since the beginning of his senior year. He pleaded with his mother to take him to a dermatologist. “Mom, the kids in my homeroom tell me I should wear a paper bag.”

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He was drifting into mother-memories and rolled onto his back as if on autopilot and mentally walked into the living room. Memories involving his mother filled several boxes. Years ago, four heavy boxes were kept on the sofa – he knew enough to put down a plain cotton blanket first. Over the next decades several other boxes were filled and were resting comfortably on a wingchair by the built-in bookcase. His mother had been right. “The best years of your life are spent with your mother, Felix. You’ll see. Eventually you’ll remember I told you so.”

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He could see the cracks in the bedroom ceiling through his closed eyes. He smiled, recalling how just last week he was able to trace a series of cracks in front of the closet, deciding that they were an outline of his mother in a photo taken of her outside the apartment house where she lived with her parents until she was married. Felix was sure the photograph was in the box on the wingchair.

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“Ah, Mother.” He sighed and then rolled onto his right side, returning to a deep sleep.

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Light found a way in even through the double curtains. But Felix never rushed out of bed in the morning. He told the previous guardian that he always had the best and most vivid memories as he was waking up. What was true twenty-five years ago was still valid now. Sleeping in, Felix held, was his best way to travel down memory lane and he would point to all the extra boxes in the living room as testament to his statement.

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However, Felix felt something buzzing around the corner of his ear and decided to yield to nature and return to bed – perhaps he’d be able to dig deeper in his passel of memories when there was less pressure on his bladder. He ignored the mostly empty carton from a twelve-pack of beer squeezed in between the toilet bowl and bathtub. They concerned his father, and “Frankly,” he would proudly nod to the mirror, “I don’t care.” 

 

*** 

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He was soon asleep again – relaxed, deep sleep since he was now under no pressure.  However, at 10:15 loud grumblings of his stomach woke him. They were insistent. With a long groan, he was out of bed. Putting on his pajamas kept under his pillow in case of fire, he made his way down the hall to the kitchen.

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Felix smiled, feeling that this was his kingdom. Here were memories of his early childhood. Milk and cookies for being a good boy, a piece of cake for an A grade, and high praise for helping with the dishes. He once kept a separate list recording the times his mother had said, “What a good boy you are, Felix.” But on his tenth birthday, with his mother’s permission, he wrote down the particulars on the day’s calendar page. He collected these each day and tied them together quarterly with white bakery string, stacking them in piles underneath the center counter.

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Now he clicked on the coffeepot, confident that it was good to go. He always remembered to prepare it the night before. Only twice had he forgotten, both times when he had had a severe case of the flu.

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He opened the cabinet for the granola and a bowl and put them on the counter. He stopped halfway to the refrigerator, remembering now that the milk had gone bad, and he had added it to his shopping list. There was canned milk in the cabinet that would do.

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The coffee was ready, and Felix sat at the counter, contentedly eating his cereal and sipping his coffee. Breakfast was a memory-free timeout; his mother always said it was the most important meal of the day. “You should eat it as if there was not a single trouble in the world, and so much more so under this our very own roof!”

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Felix finished, rinsed his mug and bowl, and inverted them in the drainer. Next the bathroom, the coffee having reminded his intestines that it was time to go. Ten minutes later he washed his hands, brushed his teeth, and returned to bed. He was always tired after eating and his postprandial nap was de rigueur. He would know upon awakening where he should continue remembering.