Foster Trecost ~ Memories

He mea­sured life in years and fifty-two had gone. Sometimes he thought, on a dif­fer­ent scale, one dri­ven by a num­ber that val­ued rich­ness and ful­fill­ment, but that num­ber was too low for his lik­ing. He had done lit­tle worth remem­ber­ing, and since it didn’t mat­ter,  years were used. One lone­ly evening, he wan­dered about his house in search of a pho­to or note worth sav­ing, but found none. From room to room, nei­ther clos­et nor draw­er con­tained any bit of mem­o­ry. He was as new­born. He attempt­ed sleep and failed, leav­ing him to real­ize a past could not be invent­ed. Then a feel­ing set­tled upon him that his life, years after it had begun, was about to begin, and he did sleep–there was a woman in a book­store in the trav­el aisle. In short order they were dis­cussing dream vaca­tions from either side of cap­puc­ci­nos. Not long after, their first trip abroad, his first. More would fol­low. The years flew past faster than he could imag­ine, but he no longer mea­sured his life in years. Richness and ful­fill­ment far obscured his age. He was a hap­py man, not an old­er one. The woman who start­ed it all put her book on the night table, took the pil­low next to his, and they slept togeth­er, his heart fill­ing with the mem­o­ries and dreams, the voy­ages, the far-off lands, the splen­did sights and scenes and spec­tac­u­lar vis­tas, the col­ors, the sounds, the scent of his­to­ry – until final­ly, fatigued by the trav­el, he came to pre­fer home to hotel, receiv­ing post­cards to send­ing, and at that time, at fifty-two, his eyes tight­ly shut, he died a qui­et death. In his sleep. With memories.


Foster Trecost writes sto­ries that are most­ly made up. They tend to fol­low his atten­tion span: some­times short, and some­times very short. He lives in New Orleans.