A25
Collective Memory
Excerpt from collection:Call it Awash: Stories and aphorisms.

august

When his mother died,
August’s father started a savings account for him without saying so.

The boy started received checks from Social Security
for having a dead mother before he was an adult,
and the monthly checks added up into this savings account.
August didn’t know about the money;
his father had hoped he would use it to go to college.

For his birthday, August’s father took him to dinner
to the same place they had dinner four nights a week.
“This is bittersweet for me, Guy.”
August’s mother had chosen the name for him but his father never really got on board.
He tried for a while with shortened versions of the name—Aug, Gust, Gusto, Auggy—but these were all worse than the name itself.
Guy was the closest name he could call his son with no embarrassment.
“When your mom died, we started to receive checks for you every month. I guess it’s for families with that can’t afford just one
parent working after the other one dies. But we’ve done okay, and I didn’t end up needing it, so I’ve been saving it for you.”
The boy’s face was unmoved, uncertain how to react.
“It’s going to seem like a lot of money, but only because you’ve never seen so much before. I want you to go to school with it, but
you’re an adult now and you can make your own choices.”
His face flushed of color, unsure if he should cry or smile. His eyes welled up anyway.
“every time a check came I just dumped it all into a savings account.
So, long story short, that account is in your name.”
His father pushed an envelope across the table toward the boy; and in the top right corner it said
The Dead Mom Fund.
August wept loudly, unembarrassed.

“And there’s another thing,” he said, and then waited for the boy to reach a point of composure.
“Your mom wrote you a letter before she died. She didn’t think you would really understand
when you were young, so she asked that I wait until today to give it to you. So here.”
He pushed an envelope with August’s name written in a large, free-ranged handwriting.
August fell silent.

Ruth Crimson-Forde