He was 72, with hollow cheeks, a tired smile, and that green backpack always resting beside his foot.
I was hiding in the only place where grief made sense.
Sometimes I found him near the cardiac wing.
Sometimes by the vending machines, where he claimed the coffee was terrible but honest.
Sometimes in the chapel, sitting in the back pew as if waiting for someone who might still arrive.
Thomas never talked like a man dying.
He talked like a man keeping track.
Thomas never talked like a man dying.
“Did the cafeteria lady’s grandson pass his driving test?” he asked once.
“I don’t know.”
“He was taking it Tuesday.”
“You remember that?”
Thomas shrugged. “She mentioned it.”
“You remember that?”
Another time, a housekeeper came in humming while she changed the trash bag.
“Morning, Lila,” he said. “That song again?”
She laughed.
“My mama loved it, Tom.”
“I know.”
She paused. “You remembered?”
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