Teriyaki Love Song
very short fiction
Last night, I picked up teriyaki from my favorite place and learned that it was the last day for the owners—a married couple. They’d sold the business and were heading into retirement. They were only in their 50s but they’d managed their money well. I was surprised by the depth of my sadness. I wiped away tears. They’d been my teriyaki joint for twenty-one years. I asked them about their future plans. The wife said, “I’ll visit my sisters in Korea more often.” The husband said, “I’ll take two long walks every day.”
I shook their hands and wished them well. They thanked me for being a longtime customer. Then I left, wondering if I should transfer my loyalty to the new owners or find a different teriyaki place.
That married couple were people that I barely knew, but still somehow love, and I grieve the loss.
This is what happens as we age. Our doctors retire. Our dentists move to new cities. Our bankers get promotions and new offices. Our high school sweethearts become exhibits in the Museum of Nostalgia.
Our parents become the left and right hand of God.
I think of my brothers and sisters. Soon enough, one of us will be the last survivor. Does anybody anywhere want to be the sibling who lives the longest and cleans the graves of all the others?
If I must be the cleaner if graves, may I at least get to unwrap a newborn to count its toes?
If I am the last one living, may I at least maintain my eyesight so I can count the stars?
Oh my. You are an amazing writer, Sherman!
"This is what happens as we age. Our doctors retire. Our dentists move to new cities. Our bankers get promotions and new offices. Our high school sweethearts become exhibits in the Museum of Nostalgia.
Our parents become the left and right hand of God."
That transition is so beautiful and so seamless!