her nostril. I can’t locate any of the person I used to know in there. I don’t dare pull back her
blanket and check her body for some recognition.
“Mrs. Flanagan,” I say. “I’m sure you don’t remember me, but . . .”
I expect her eyes to flutter open and take me in, uncomprehending perhaps, searching
my face for clues.
Or maybe she’ll know exactly who I am and smile and thank me for coming. Maybe
this visit will inject life into her and before we know it, to the stupefaction of the medical staff,
she’ll be sitting up, eating solid food, playing rounds of cards with me, and we’ll walk out of
here together.
But of course not. Her eyes remain closed. Only the softest whistle comes from her
mouth — that alone to tell me she ’s even alive.
I’m still not sure I know exactly why I came, or why I stay.
Or why I climb into the bed and squeeze myself next to her. What I do know is that it
feels right that I touch her again, that I hold her for the very first time.
Jody Rathgeb
Pawpaw Green
Nick showed up first, so he dragged the domino table out of the workshop, admiring it
anew. Let others knock together a few boards and slap on the varnish; Joe made a table that
was crafted as carefully as the tight wooden boats that made his living. Nick placed it in their
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