That's not Joe!

It was on a day like today that Andy got lost. It was cold, damp, overcast, leafless trees, branches reaching for the gray sky. Wild geese were honking as they flew low, and the chill was great enough to portend the season's first snow.

A total contrast was the inside of the big, old country farmhouse. Family had gathered for Thanksgiving Day. Toasty warm with turkey baking, warm bodies, laughter, everyone talking. The yeasty smell of fresh bread baked on the old wood stove and the tempting pies magnetically drew those awaiting the meal from the parlor to the kitchen. All except Andy.

Martha realized that she had made a mistake long before tragedy struck. Everyone had agreed that it would be grand to give Andy a holiday from the Alzheimer's unit of his care facility and take him to be with family for the holiday. But, Andy was confused.

"Do you know who I am?"

"Do you know where I am?"

"Why am I here?"

"What's wrong with me?"

The questions kept coming. The answers didn't seem to help.

"Who are all these people?"

He brightened when Martha said, "Joe will be here in a little."

He knew Joe. Joe was his little brother. They played together. When Joe came they could go outside and play and get away from all these loud old people.

"Here's Joe, Andy!"

He stared at the old man with the cane in confusion. "That's not Joe, not my Joe."

Andy toyed with his food when the bountiful plate was set before him. Usually such a good eater, he had no appetite. That should have been a signal....for someone. But the food was delightful and the company grand and everyone was having such a wonderful time. The menfolk retired to the parlor to watch football. The ladies began the long after-dinner clean up of the dishes. No one missed Andy for ever so long.

It took four days to find him--four long, cold days and nights of searching the woods and fields and streams. They found him in a ravine that he had followed, sitting with his back against a tree, no shoes, no coat or hat, his glasses gone. Ninety-one year old Andy had died from exposure.

Even with his unsteady gait and his cane, Joe insisted on seeing the place where they had found him. His son drove him as close as his pickup would allow. As Joe hobbled down the length of the ravine he had a smile on his face. "There!" he said. "I'll bet that's the tree where you found him."

It was an old, dead, mammoth burr oak with remnants of ancient rotting pieces of wood still nailed to its trunk. "That was our tree house. He found his way home."

© Broses. All rights reserved by the author.