My Last Name

by Eric M. Schumacher

This is a work of fiction.

Barnes was not my first last name, but it will be my last last name; I will not have another name.

There is nothing natural about being ninety-five years old,

being unable to forget the things you never wanted to remember, and unable to remember the only things you ever wanted to keep.

This is my apartment. “Assisted living,” they called it, though I seem to receive more assistance and do less living these days.

I wore the ring that John had given me, and Everett wore the ring that Katie had given him. They were perfectly good rings, and our spouses had been a part of our lives—a good part of our lives—and why should they be discarded and forgotten now, simply because they had died?