A Flash of Him

My father wandered the halls lost within his mind. Every classroom looked the same, a suburb of idle creativity. Small chairs, small children, small people. He passed my classroom three times. It was darker when he finally appeared in the doorway. A confused look on his face.

The first time he passed the teachers reassured me he would be back. But after a while, he walked past, a blankness on his face. My mother’s words tickle my ears, “He sometimes has trouble remembering things.” I reached out to help him but the teachers told me plainly, “You can not leave this room. He must sign you out first.” But sometimes he needs help remembering where I am. Sometimes he needs help remembering where he is.

On his second pass, I pulled away from the teacher but was held restrictively. Repeated lines. Repeated rules. “You can not leave this room. He must sign you out first.” Please let me go to him. He’ll remember me. He’ll recognize me. He can sign me out then. He won’t forget me.

My memories of him are vague at most. My memories not like my mother’s or sister’s. My memories forming and his fading away. My memories of a disappearing father.

Sharp memories that lacerate my subconscious, tangling my breath and compressing my ribs.

I look up at the teachers and they are giggling school girls. What was so funny? An invisible wall of obedience kept me in this room.

“Is he lost?”

They laughed, “He looks confused.”

On his third pass, he finally stopped at my door.

“I am looking for Desmond King.”

“Yes, he’s here.”

The giggling women gave him the sign-out chart. I raced toward him and held his hand.

I helped him to the car.