Harry
Afternoon light dappled by outside leaves scattered shadows across her hospital sheets. The hospital reeked strongly of disinfectant. His mother opened her eyes and said, “Is that you, Harry?” Harry was his dad.
“No,” he told her. “It’s Blake, your oldest son.”
Her feeble hand fluttered, seeking his, so he took it in his and held it gently. If felt to him like brittle paper. He tried to will her his love though his hand.
“You look good, Harry,” she said. “You must be eating well.”
“I’m Blake.”
Her grip relaxed, and her eyes closed. The room filled with beeped warnings. “Goodbye, Mom,” he said at last, too late.
Blake let go of her hand and felt a tiny piece of her skin tug at his. He looked and a tiny bit of her old brittle skin had stuck to his finger. He looked at it and realized this was the last touch he might ever feel from her. He asked the nurse for a bandage and covered that bit of his mother’s skin to protect it.
Blake forgot about the bandage. The next morning, bleary-eyed, as hot water bathed him, the bandage washed off and lay unnoticed on the shower floor. Blake dressed and went to work.
Exhausted that night and a little tipsy Blake slipped his key in the lock and found the door already ajar. Carefully he eased the door open. Harsh light from the hallway swept across the interior as the door squeaked open. A young naked woman sat in a chair facing the door. The door stopped, left silence hanging, waiting.
“Is that you, Harry?” the woman asked.
