A Day in 1953

Epilogue

“He was the smartest dog in the whole world,” Ben says, “he would roll over if you tell him to, and he fetches my socks for me.”

“Our dog can do that too, no big deal,” an auburn-haired eight-year-old argued.

“What’s your dog’s name then?” Ben patiently asks.

“Bacon,” the little girl answered with pride, “and that’s his favorite food too.”

“You know what,” Ben shifts in his wheelchair, “you look like someone I know.”

“Really?” the little girl’s eyes widened, “is she pretty?”

“Oh yes,” Ben grinned, “she’s the prettiest girl in our neighborhood. She had big eyes like you and beautiful red hair.”

“What’s her name?”

“Maura. Maura Fischer.”

My wife and I stood from afar, watching the two of them talk. Ben had been far too weak for walking, but not for chatting. We were regulars in the home, and the nurses didn’t even bother to limit our time with Ben.

Ben was moved into a different unit in the home, he now shares a room with others who suffer from defective memories. He has somehow regained his popularity. Researchers come by to interview him regularly, saying that they are here to make a documentary about one-day Ben. Ben, of course, tells them the same stuff everyday, which amuses them. “Like listening to a recording,” one of the researchers says.

I did what Ben and Maura told me: Go out, meet women, start a family of my own. The book about Ben was a success, and I am now working on another one. Life moved on for me, but not for Ben. His mind never left that day in 1953.