Time in a Bottle

The phone rang! I groaned as I struggled to stand and answer it.

My grandson says I should get one of those Android things that you can put in your pocket. Never! It would vanish in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. Hell, I can hardly find the remote to my TV; it either slips into an inaccessible crevice deep in the sofa’s cushions, or it falls on the floor and somehow ends up unreachable underneath the footstool. 

And to drive the last nail in that coffin, I don’t hear or see so well anymore. If I did eventually stumble upon it and didn't break my hip tripping on it, I’d still need to get my reading glasses to see who called. 

99% of all the phone calls I receive are either someone wanting to buy my house for cash or someone trying to push Medicare Advantage on me. They leave messages, but I never return their calls.

I prefer my wall-mounted phone; it rings loudly, and I can always find it. Besides, there is a satisfaction in telling persistent, annoying salesmen NEVER CALL AGAIN, and slamming the phone onto the receiver, imagining it's their condescending faces.

About five years ago, I told all my friends to wait for twenty rings before leaving a message. It takes me that long to get to the kitchen.

Recently, I counted the rings and, on reaching seventeen, I picked up the receiver. Jeff, one of my few surviving close friends, was on the other end, singing an out-of-tune HAPPY BIRTHDAY to YOU, followed by, Happy Seventy-Sixth Birthday, Ray!  We can both officially claim the title of Elder now. Then he added, I don’t mind aging; it’s the getting old part that's crap!

I replied. What’s the alternative, pushing up daisies? We talked for a while, and I joked, Still doing a comb-over to impress the girls? Or have you finally shaved your head like me? We then progressed into arguing about who had the prettiest date to our high school prom. Then we both agreed it was my wife, Penny.

I am astonished that we have remained in touch all these years. I thanked him for calling and headed back to my sofa to finish rewatching the last episode of Grey's Anatomy, season 7.  Sadly, I have been binge-watching it on Hulu. Or is it Netflix? I can never remember which.

Penny would always say, Just one more episode, and I would grumble a little, then watch with her, because secretly, I was as hooked on the show as she was.

I have to pass through my study to get to the living room. As I did, my hand glided across my grandfather’s writing desk. It’s a dark oak, Mission-style desk, associated with the American Arts and Crafts movement.  I frequently saw my grandfather writing on it when I visited him as a teenager.

Serving in the Navy from 1916 through World War II. He was discharged in 1947 with the rank of Chief Warrant Officer.

He would laugh today knowing that I decommissioned his desk. In its retirement, it has become a home for my computer monitor and keyboard. 

Looking down at the desk, a familiar voice called to me. I, reverently, opened the drawer, once again inspired. Without looking, I reached in. The thin, baby-smooth object inside slid through my fingers, and I pulled it out.

No longer hidden, I once again admired its form. A slim, crystal-shaped, blue glass bottle, with a tiny blue and gold “Evening in Paris” stamp glued to the outside. The precious perfume inside beckoned to me. “Unscrew the cap and free me once again.”

I anticipated inhaling the floral scent held captive within, for it always takes me back to my beginning. It is a fountain of youth, a pool of memories. I removed the bottle’s blue cap, with the fringed silk tassel, and drew in a breath. My mother appeared in my mind like a genie released from a bottle. She has not aged a day, and now I am her child once more and can be with her one more time.

As I run from the ocean towards her, chased by rolling waves, my older brother races swiftly by me, leaving his footprints etched in my mind. Will I ever be able to launch myself like him, a slender harpoon parting the incoming waves?

The salt air is filled with the aroma of swirling flower petals, and I am enveloped in a sun-warmed, plush beach towel. My mother wraps me as I shiver, water dripping into the sand.

I tightly twist the bottle cap back on to save the liquid inside, and although the memories of my mother are always with me, her scent just makes them more vivid.

RKO Ⓒ2025 All Rights Reserved