Crossing

            I cross the hall into your room to watch you lying there. Your hospital bed made home. I wonder about your most recent operation. I stare unblinking. Just for a moment. Then I go again, and straighten myself- ready to pretend you’re not where I know you are.

            I sit with you. I read a magazine. You read your eyelids. You cough and my glare flickers. You move, adjust slightly. I watch. Your eyebrows raise, your expression squints. You feel pain. Then you sigh heavy. I go back to the magazine.

            The nurse comes. It’s her turn to sit. I stand up and walk to your side. You breathe hard; you know I’m there. You mumble, you speak in your way. I smile, I feign, and I say, “Hi mom.” I take your hand. I gently squeeze. I feel the faint pressure of your hand squeezing back. I put the magazine on your bedside table. I tell the nurse thank you. I leave the room. The tears don’t come. I decide that there are no more to cry.

            I go out to lunch. I see a friend. She says hello. Her name is Sherry. She tells me about her work, about her son Franklin. I smile and appreciate the information. She asks about my mother. I pause and tell her about my mother’s remission. I tell Sherry about the transfer home. I tell Sherry that the doctor’s thought that she should spend this time somewhere familiar, with family. Sherry says, “Sorry.” She looks at her wristwatch and explains that she’s late. She leaves quickly. She doesn’t say goodbye.

            I return home. The nurse is sitting by your door, in the hall. I ask her if anything has happened since I had been gone. The nurse says no. I thank her and relieve her for the evening. I go into your room and take out your pills. I pour a glass of water. I massage your throat as you fight to swallow them. I run my hand over your forehead, over your wisps of hair. I kiss your cheek. Your lip curls. I know you mean to smile. I take your hand. You administer your gentle squeeze. I return the gesture.

            I change for bed. I decide that you may need me in the night, so I unfold the couch in the living room adjacent. I turn off the lights, but keep the hallway’s on. I lie on my back and stare at your door.

I fantasize about the times before. “The happy days,” we say. The days when we didn’t think. When the sun wasn’t a reminder; when the sun was just the sun. I close my eyes, still staring at your bedroom door. I shut them tight. And in the dark of them I try to see all of the things that I want. But I don’t. I just see dark. And it stays that way, me too afraid to open them.

I dream. There is white. A satin landscape. The wind there whips gently by, it caresses. I am searching. Searching. Searching for you. And I hear you. Your voice. It’s all around me. It’s the wind. It’s the white. It calls. It calls to me. It says, “It’s okay. It will be okay.”

            I open my eyes. It’s dark, early morning. I sit up. I look to your room. I listen intently. I get up and cross the hall into your room. I watch you lying there. I go to your side. I hold your hand. I squeeze.

            I squeeze. I squeeze. I squeeze.

            You don’t squeeze back.

            I cross the hall into your room. But you’re not there. A streak of sun lies in your place. An open window lets it in. It is bright. I squint my eyes. Yet the room dims and pales. Fades away.

            I find the necessary tears. They arrive in my sad conclusion. And I fantasize about the times before. “The happy days,” we say. The days of thought. When the sun was a reminder, and not simply just the sun. I close my eyes. And I don’t forget. I don’t ever forget.

I close my hands. I make a fist. Squeezing. Then I go again, straighten myself. Ready to pretend. Ready. I pretend.

A guy