Recognition

Do I know this place? It has the familiar feel that all bedrooms decorated by women who like gaudy flower-printed drapes do. I’m sitting in the upholstered armchair in the corner under a handmade quilt and close my eyes. The sunlight pours over me and I feel a cat-like warmth. I stretch and knock a tube from my nose. Since when do I need an oxygen tank? I push the plastic cord to the floor. My hand is white and covered in spots, like an old man’s.

I look out the window. On the grass before me, children run through sprinklers. Their laughter stirs a cloud of fond memories. The small feet trampling over soft blades of grass are mine. I am a small boy, the cold drops of water running down my chest. I am laughing and the water sprays in so many directions, I don’t know where to run.

There is a knock at the door. “Hello-o!” sings a female voice. “Oh, your oxygen!” Oh great, the nurse. She’d better be a looker. I hear high heels click-clack across the hardwood floor and from behind, polished nails reach around to replace the oxygen tube against my nostrils. I snort. She comes around my chair and smiles. Black hair against creamy white skin: Cynthia.

God, she’s beautiful. Hasn’t changed since our wedding day. She was so young. Her big eyes and smooth skin so pure, I felt I was committing a crime.

She leans down to kiss me and I tilt my mouth to meet hers. I feel her lips touch my forehead.

“Hi Dad,” she says.

I peel back a smile and remain quiet. God, she’s beautiful.