I developed this piece, written to the prompt “A once sane man.” This is fiction, but the boy running through the fields of the West of Flanders, is loosely inspired by the stories my grandfather told me about that time. He’s doing very well still. At ninety, his legs still carry him around the West of Flanders.
Time had gotten the best of him. The young, bony legs that had helped him run through fields in the West of Flanders, had retired a long time ago. They had carried him through the war of his childhood, hiding from the German soldiers in the village, racing between the farms, spread on the outskirts of the village to deliver the latest news, gossip and food. Back then, his legs had refused service only once, when he saw a man get shot, and he sat, crouched behind a dumpster in an alley, until dusk offered him cover to return home.
As a young man, they had taken him to the mandatory enlistment in the army. But he’d fought in no other war than the one with his current demons. After serving his country for the mandatory time, he had taken up the gold fever, saved his money and embarked on an adventure that would take him to Detroit, where the automotive industry was flourishing.
He moved them long legs on hardwood dancefloors, shuffling and holding girls close, fast paced and almost floating above the surface in twists and Rock’n’Rolls. And then one day, his hand had stretched out, inviting the most beautiful girl for a dance, and his legs had walked him into the next adventure.
His bones had eventually started cracking about thirty years ago. He had broken a hip and got a replacement knee since. Marlene, his wife of over fifty years had passed away ten years later, and their children, grand-children and great grandchildren had helped him grieve and carry the load of the loss. They had kept him young for a good time after, inviting him on short trips and dinner nights, taking him to soccer games and school play matinees.
It was, of course, inevitable, he understood. Nobody could live forever. What saddened him most was that he didn’t have a say in how things would go down. He had tried to reason with God when he started noticing the changes. When he started calling his oldest daughter Marlene, knowing it couldn’t be her, but seeing his wife in her face nevertheless. Phoning his grandchildren on the wrong birthdays. Catching himself telling the same story twice in an afternoon. And then that time, standing at the entrance of the grocery store, utterly lost, until a police car stopped to see what he was doing there at one in the morning, and he realized he was wearing pajamas.
He knew what was happening, and what it was called. His mind was melting away, as if the memories had decided to go first, evacuating his body. He couldn’t blame them, really, abandoning this sinking ship.
A once sane man, it broke his heart that this was happening to him. But a once brave boy, running through the fields of the West of Flanders, his legs would carry this load and the sorrow until the very end.