There’s a picture on the table in the old man’s kitchen. It’s an unspoken challenge to Joe: Who is this? The old man likes to play this game on holidays and birthdays when he produces his Big Box of Pictures and invariably pulls out snapshots of Joe’s friends and former girlfriends. This photo in particular lies on top of a mess of others that Scooter has batted at cockeyed angles with his black paws.

The old man has the advantage, though. Joe is horrible with names. He’s better at remembering episodes like a picnic on top of a hill, or an empty parking lot after midnight, or decorating a Christmas tree on a blustery December afternoon and his girlfriend’s eyes sparkled like sunlight off an icicle. Collectively the episodes are like short stories he’s ripped through, remembering only the rare ones that blew him back in his chair. The old man though. That was far different. His relationship with Joe’s mother was one long novel. An epic of chapter after chapter building a sweeping plot, the final chapter inscribed on her headstone.

Dinner’s over now. They’re sitting there, sated, sipping their second round of Scotch. The old man sees his chance. “So who is this?” he asks, tapping the edge of the picture he selected that will prove his memory as sharp as ever.

Joe recognizes himself on the left side of the shot. He’s twenty-something with side-parted blonde hair and an earring and the glow of infinite possibility in his eyes. He should file a missing persons report on that guy.

But the old man isn’t asking about his firstborn. His only surviving, after complications and miscarriages. Joe has no answer about the girl holding onto his forearm as it hangs over her shoulder, the petite brunette with the Aqua-Netted hair and the bright smile. Damn she was beautiful. He wishes he had tried harder to keep her.

Her name isn’t coming to him, but her face in this snapped micro-fraction of their lives sparks a memory that spreads warmth across his face. The Fourth of July, late at night: they’re in the back bedroom of the house, their breaths heavy in the air.

Joe sits back in his chair, remembering his arm around the brunette, the warmth of her tanned shoulders. The breakup came down to something about always having the same date. His stomach lurches so sharply he’s surprised his father doesn’t hear it and ask if he wants more steak.

“Regina,” the old man finally says, smiling with his eyes. “She was a nice girl. We liked her.”

His eyes drift into a soft, vague focus beyond Joe’s shoulder before falling onto his own hands, and then his wedding band. Scooter senses something and relocates himself to the old man’s side of the table.

The old man looks to Joe, breaking the spell that had seized him for a few seconds. “Regina,” he repeats as he nods and grins almost arrogantly.

Joe smiles broadly and returns his father’s nod. Yes. Regina. He’s happy for the old man’s small victory. Happy to have an old man who remembers.

“Take some of that cake with you,” the old man says.

“Hell yeah,” Joe says. He cuts half of it and finds a container. He grabs the rest of The Famous Grouse, flicking his eyebrows at his father like he’s getting something over on him.

“Alright,” the old man says, dismissing his loss with a wave of his hand. “But that’s your gift, so Happy Birthday!” He grins, pleased with his own quick thinking.

“Thanks, Pops,” Joe says, returning the smile. ”Thanks for all this tonight. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” the old man says. “You’ve lived a life of love, kid. Not just from your mother and me. Many great episodes still. We should be thankful for all of that.”

“I am thankful, Pops,” Joe says, and he's only half lying.

His father reads his face. Joe figures the old man sees something there that he won’t verbalize. But he will hug his son. Which he does, with reassuring arms.

Jeff Burd

is a graduate of the Northwestern University writing program and works as a high school English teacher in the northern suburbs of Chicago. Mr. Burd’s novella-in-flash Hello, Joe is the “coming of middle-age” story of Joe as he struggles to understand who he is and establish meaningful relationships. Thoughts of W.S. Merwin’s “The New Song” haunt Joe at every turn: “For some time I thought there was time / and that there would always be time....”

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⚡ The New Song by W.S. Merwin, republished at The Merwin Conservancy from The Moon Before Morning (Copper Canyon Press, 2014)