FIDDLEFORD APPRECIATION MONTH. Week one- parallel Fiddleford

Day 9

The day was nearing its end as Tate Mcgucket walked down the street. Autumn leaves scattered across his path and the October chill nipped at his nose. He noticed the pumpkins already carved and placed outside people's houses. He rolled his eyes at there enthusiasm. It was only like the 19th of September, as if this town wasn't spooky enough, the townsfolk had to be so overly excited for Halloween. He sighed and continued down the path, to pursue his goal.
Soon enough he came to the entrance of the dump. The rancid smell filled his nostrils but he'd gotten used to it after going there nearly everyday to help his father with his failing memory. He took a step onto the worn away dirt path and looked around the heaps of junk scattered across the enclosed walls of the yard. He knew the path like the back of his hand as he wandered through the piles of varying rubbish toward the small, rickety shack in the centre of dump. He took in a deep breath as he approached, he was slowly beginning to give up hope on restoring his father's dignity and mental state. He prepared himself to see his dad, he had been getting even worse and worse as the weeks past, rambling on about the triangles and babbling in tongues.
He stood at the front on the shacks door, well it's not really a door it's more of a door way with a mangled animal pelt hanging like a curtain. "Dad?" He called out as he ducked under the pelt and peeked into the shack. He glanced around the small, cramped room before spotting his father sitting in his rocking chair, staring back at him with a confused/alarmed expression. "Hello?" Tate slowly asked him, stopping in his tracks. "Who are you?" Fiddleford questioned, stilling in his chair out of fear. "Dad...it's me it's Tate, your son. Remember?" He stated and began to slowly crouch down to seem less threatening. Fiddleford's face didn't change and he kept his eyes locked on Tate but slightly tried to make himself seem bigger, like a cornered animal. "Dad please remember" Tate pleaded and looked into his eyes. Fiddleford's shoulders slacked, his poster loosened and his eyes softened. "Tate.." he whispered, a frown forming on his face. "I-I forgot again didn't I?" He hiccuped as he began to sob. Tate stood up and leaned in to comfort his father. "No dad it's okay, look you remembered didn't you? It just took a little longer this time" Tate smiled and tried to hug Fiddleford. "No Tate I forgot ya again, this is the fifth time this month" he cried and squirmed away from Tate's reach. "17th" Tate stated under his breath as he backed away. "Please Dad just let me help ya" he pleaded, some of his southern drawl coming out in his speech. "Tate I can't, Im sorry. I can't be rememberin' right! I'm just hopeless!" He snivelled, pulling long strands of hair out of his beard. "Dad just let me help you!" He yelled, making his father jump and look down at his bandaged feet. "Oh Dad I'm sorry, i-I didn't mean to-to shout. I...I just want to help you" he whispered and sank back down to the ground. He didn't care when his knees sank into the mud floor of the shack. Fiddleford sat in his chair, tugging at his beard and deathly quiet. His lips were pressed into a fine line as he went into a mute state of mind. "Pa..." he whispered and looked into his eyes. Memories flooded his mind of when Tate was young and called him by that name. His head hurt slightly by the rush of memories filling his mind. "Tate. I'm sorry" he whispered as tears dribbled down his face.
Tate's face scrunched up in anger for a split second before smoothing out in to a friendly smile. He took a deep breath and looked back at his bag. "I brought you some blankets and new pants" he stated as he drew the bag closer to him. He dug into it and pulled out three knitted blankets and a pack of new underwear. "It's almost winter, I'm worried your gunna be cold 'n' that curtain isn't really keeping the cold out" he looked over his shoulder at the pelt swaying in the wind before looking back at his father. Fiddleford smiled kindly at him and took the blankets from him. "Thank ya Tater tot" he beamed as he remembered his nick name. Tate chuckled slightly and got up from the floor. "Haven't heard that one in a while" he stated cheerfully as he dusted himself off. "Aren't ya gunna stay, I'm cooking beans" he looked up at him with a glint of hope in his eye. Tate scratched his head and looked at the ground. "I..uh, I have to go. It's getting darker now and all..." he stuttered and looked down at his father. Fiddleford's smile faltered slightly before speaking. "Okay...well sure was nice ta see ya again" he stated, beaming up at Tate before standing in his rocking chair to be eye level with him. "Yeah...see ya pa" said Tate as he stepped closer slightly and held out his arms for a hug. Fiddleford nearly jumped into his embrace but steadied himself on the rocky foundation of his chair. The hug was awkward and lasted just a little bit too long.
Tate gave his father a final pat on the shoulder before smiling and turning toward the door-animal pelt curtain. Fiddleford looked at his son's back, hoping he'd stay. "Goodbye Tate" he said quietly. Tate paused slightly at his words. "Bye pa" he said before continuing out the door way and made his way down the path.
Fiddleford sat down in his rocking hair and tugged at his beard. He looked down at his bandaged feet and the around the room. He looked at where he was and thought of how he got here. Try as hard as he might he couldn't remember why. Why he was here and why he simply couldn't remember. Why was it so hard to remember?