Short Story: 'Scenery of Sorrow'

I place a knife against the back of the avocado and rotate it once lengthwise. I twist it in opposite directions with both hands to split it in two. I hook the base of the blade into the spherical pit to remove it, then scoop out the lime-green flesh with a spoon. It is perfectly ripe. I mash it with a fork, mix it with tuna, and add a squeeze of lemon. I pack it into a container and put it in my tote bag.
He might want seconds. On a whim, I put a whole avocado into the bag as well.
The scent of rain drifts in from the kitchen window.
I change into a worn-out, young-grass-colored Laura Ashley dress. I know it doesn't suit me anymore. I look in the mirror and pluck a few gray hairs.
I place the tote bag on the passenger seat and start the engine of my Rover Mini.
A light drizzle taps against the windshield.
Wednesdays have a statistically higher probability of rain—Koichi used to say things like that. I press the accelerator.

'Avocado means lawyer in Spanish.'
Koichi, who had passed the bar exam on his third attempt, placed the dark, bumpy fruit in my palm. He grabbed my wrist as I pulled my hand away from the mysterious object and looked at me with intense eyes, saying, 'Won't you cook for me every day?'
An avocado was his marriage proposal.
My cheeks soften every time I remember it.
Back when avocados were still rare. Unlike ordinary me, Koichi was a bundle of curiosity and thirst for knowledge—a sincere man, though perhaps a bit off-center.

We were not blessed with children.
'Avocado flowers bloom twice, you know.'
They bloom and close when the pistil is ready to be pollinated, then bloom again the next day when the stamens release pollen. Because the reproductive timing of the pistil and stamens is offset, it is difficult for them to bear fruit.
'We are like avocados. Isn't that fine?'
Watching his profile as he eloquently shared knowledge that offered no real comfort, my tears eventually turned into a bittersweet smile.

The rain is falling mournfully.
I park the Rover Mini in the parking lot of the facility built on a hill overlooking the sea.
The sea is veiled in rain.
'I've made the tuna-mixed avocado that you like, Koichi.'
His unfocused eyes are watching the rain hitting the window.
The sea of his knowledge has long since calmed and remains still.

When he was diagnosed with early-onset dementia five years ago, Koichi closed his law firm. He said that a client's life depends on legal work, and 'I forgot' is not an acceptable excuse. Before long, he had even decided on moving into a nursing facility.
'Why, why... I will take care of you!'
He just stared at me as I pressed him, then squeezed out the words, 'It is to save you, and it is to save me.'
For Koichi, who took pride in his extraordinary memory, the fading of his recollections was unbearable.
'Let me protect my small pride,' he said, his lips twisting.
He said he didn't want to expose me to the sight of him losing his memories day by day.
What should I have done back then?
I had insisted that I would take care of him until the very end.
I pretended to yield to his wish to 'protect his dignity.'
But I know that a dark lump was hiding deep within my heart. I know that there was a part of me that felt gloomy about the caregiving, not knowing how many years it would last, more than I felt for his suffering or grief.

From the corner of his mouth that won't close, the oily, lime-green flesh spills out, and drool drips down. I reach out and wipe Koichi's mouth with a handkerchief.
'Thank you... kind person.'
I am no longer reflected in your eyes.
Even wearing the young-grass-colored dress you gave me for my birthday, I do not come alive in your gaze.
'Article 218 of the Penal Code, Abandonment by a Person Responsible for Protection...'
While spilling the avocado you used to love, I am no longer in the memories of you reciting the law so sonorously.

I make my visiting day a rainy Wednesday.
I walk to the Rover Mini parked at the very back of the lot, feeling the unceasing rain on my cheeks. The hem of my young-grass-colored dress gets wet and clings to my legs.
I place the grenade-like avocado on the dashboard and head home. To a house where you are not. To a room where only your lingering scent refuses to fade.

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I am participating in the 'Write from the Title Literary Award (Scenery of Sorrow)' hosted by Kaoru Hanazawa. This is my third entry, submitted just before the deadline.