He remembers little of all those other years. He takes vitamins after meals, runs a finger along receding gum lines. His mind flashes memories – a girl he used to study with who intermittently placed her pen between her breasts, a pair of socks he no longer owns. At some point he must’ve been able to piece together a timeline of events, but what’s he left with? The memory of drunkenly grappling with a belt in a restroom.
After his stroke he tells the seven-year-old granddaughter, “Maybe it’d been better if I went.”
The words sparkle in her molasses brown eyes. (ms)
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