“Oh love, did you really?”
Her lip begins to tremble.
Now she’s crying for real.
“You remember that day?”
“Of course I remember.”
I hold her gently as her tears dampen my shirt.
I’m counting the years in my head.
Ten... eleven... almost twelve.
Stress has aged her more than time itself.
It’s impossible to fathom that the woman in front of me is only forty eight.
Her face is textured and rough.
Her hands too.
She looks even older than Mrs Ambrose, who was in her sixties last time I was here.
“I’ve never seen you with silver hair before,” I smile quietly.
“Oh,” she shrugs. “That just happened over time.”
But… she’s really here.
And so am I.
“Can't believe we’re in the same room,” I whisper.
“Neither can I,” she grins. “Happy birthday, my boy.”
???
She clears a space on the couch, shoving a mound of laundry onto the floor.
The pile has always been there.
I remember when I was a kid, having to rummage through it.
I’d sniff things to find a clean outfit to wear to school each day.
The clothes are always dumped in a heap.
Never on hangers or in drawers.
No wonder I became such a neat freak,I smile.
But none of that matters anymore.
Only she matters.
I need to soak in every minute while I can.
