Old Man
“Who are you? What are you doing here?” His father’s eyes darted like those of a cornered animal. A bead of sweat made the pilgrimage from matted hair to temple across a pale, hollow face being wrangled by contorted blankets.
“My name is Michael. I’ve come a long way to be here. I… I’m a friend.”
“Michael?”
“Yes.”
“Michael.” His father’s tongue rolled the word around his mouth as if from a foreign language. “Who am I?” he whispered.
Michael’s vision blurred. His father had taught him to play baseball with an oversized leather glove that smelled of smoke. His father had assembled a telescope for Michael’s tenth birthday, illuminating every constellation he knew and then inventing more. His father had knelt before Michael’s skinned knees to retie his dangling shoelaces.
“You’re Thomas Phillips.” The words hung in the air.
“Water?”
“Of course.” Michael smiled with the lower half of his face and turned towards a cramped bathroom. Sterile machines hummed a low symphony. His shoes applauded on the echoing tile. He filled a paper cup, eyeing his own weary thin features in a fading mirror. He stepped towards the old man’s empty stare.
His feet stumbled halfway across the room. Surging water escaped the cup.
His father’s eyes spotted Michael’s shoelaces, met Michael’s, and widened.
For the last time, his father saw him.