Oregano

Ruben was pulling yellow sticky notes from the drawer when Mrs. Mathews knocked on his door.

"You alright in there, honey?" Her voice came through thin wood. "Heard about this morning."

He smacked a note that said SUGAR onto the ceramic container, smoothing out the wrinkles. "Fine, fine. Just... being careful."

"My grandson does the same thing with his video games. Labels everything so he don't forget where he put 'em."

Ruben almost smiled at that. Twenty-six years old and stamping Xbox controllers. Him at seventy-three, stamping salt.

The morning had started normal enough. Toast, coffee, watching the weather from his kitchen window. That's when he smelled something acrid, chemical and strong. Gas leak, it had to be. His hands shook as he dialed 911, he was already thinking explosions, and he remembered the old man on block 2B who died in his sleep last winter from a faulty heater.

"911, what's your emergency?"

"Gas leak," he'd said. "Strong smell, apartment 4C on Maple Street."

Fire trucks came. Three of them, lights flashing, neighbors in bathrobes on the sidewalk. Captain Andy; nice guy, bought him coffee once at the diner, went through the whole apartment with a detector.

"Nothing, Mr. Herrera. No gas anywhere."

That's when Ruben saw it. The oregano jar, smashed open on the counter where he'd knocked it over reaching for his pills. Dried herbs coated everything, the pungent smell filling the kitchen.

"Oh." He said "Oh, I'm.. sorry. So so sorry."

Andy chuckled. " It happens more often than you'd think. Italian seasoning got my neighbor last month."

They all departed. Afterwards, Mrs. Mathews dropped off soup, said things happen and to forget about it.

But now after nine in the evening, Ruben sat at his kitchen table with a package of sticky notes and a black pen.

OREGANO, he wrote on one. Stuck it on the jar he'd cleaned up and brought back.

TEA BAGS on the tin by the window.

COFFEE on another can.

His handwriting was unsteady. When had that begun?

The thing was, he knew what oregano smelled like. He had known for seventy-three years. His mother used it in everything: beans, chicken, that tomato sauce she made from scratch. He'd worked with her in the kitchen as a boy, grinding it between his fingers, smelling it.

So why did it smell like gas this morning?

FLOUR. BAKING SODA. OLIVE OIL.

He kept writing and pasting.

The apartment was too quiet. He could hear Mrs. Mathew's television through the wall, some late-night talk show. Her grandson visiting again, no doubt. Lucky her.

Ruben's daughter lived in Phoenix now. Called every Sunday, talked about her kids, her work, the weather. Always asked if he was eating and sleeping ok. He always said yes.

What was he gonna say now? Hey Lucia, I called the fire department because I forgot what oregano smells like?

SALT, he wrote. The container already said Morton right there in blue letters.

He paused. The marker felt heavy now.

At sixty, he could remember the name of each student he'd taught since thirty years. Could tick off phone numbers, addresses, birthdays. His mind was tidy, neat, and organized like his classroom.

At seventy, he started to write things down more. Grocery lists, doctor appointments. Normal things. Everyone did that.

Now.

The oregano jar sat on the counter with its new sign, mocking him. Same jar he'd used the day before on the chicken. Same smell he'd known all his life.

But this morning it was gas. This morning it was lethal.

PEPPER, he wrote on another slip of paper.

Tomorrow he'd probably remember what pepper smelled like. Probably. But next week? Next month?

He thought of Andy's detector, beeping through every room. Looking for something that wasn't there. Like his head now looking for memories that might not be there either.

The sticky notes were running out. He had around ten left.

Ruben looked around his kitchen. The microwave clock blinked 9:47. Coffee maker unplugged as always. Everything in its place, everything normal.

Except him.

He tore off another note, wrote MEMORY on it, then paused. Where was he supposed to leave that one?

There was silence from Mrs. Mathew's television. The building returned to its nighttime sounds; pipes creaking, footsteps overhead, the hum of refrigerators.

Ruben folded the MEMORY note and stuffed it into his shirt pocket.

He is aware that this fleeting instant of confusion, is the beginning of something more he cannot stop. Another chapter in his life.

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