He Called Me By Her Name
Dad's started thanking me by my mother's name. I never correct him, and I don't know anymore who that's really for.
I'm still in my coat at the kitchen counter, tea going cold, running the visit back.
dad's been in the unit six months now. tonight when I signed him out for our walk he handed the visitor sticker back to the nurse and said "she always did the paperwork better than me," and thanked me. by her name. my mother's name. she died four years before he moved in.
I didn't correct him. I never do. it happens maybe once a visit now, more some weeks, and every time there's a half second where I could say dad, it's me, and every time I let it pass because correcting him means watching his face lose her twice.
so I said you're welcome, in her voice almost, the one she used when she was being modest about something she'd actually done well. it fit strangely well in my mouth.
walking to the elevator he squeezed my hand the exact way I remember her squeezing mine as a kid, three short presses, our code for I see you. I don't think he knows he's doing it. I don't think I want him to stop.
I keep telling myself I'm being kind, letting him keep her a little longer. sitting here with the tea gone cold, I'm not sure anymore if that's true, or if I just like being wanted that much, even the borrowed kind.