With a blanket covering his knees, Thomas was seated next to the window.
He was eighty years old, with trembling hands and thin white hair. However, I was familiar with his eyes.”Eleanor,” he remarked.
A thousand times, I had imagined hearing my name in his voice.
There were no pictures of another woman’s family on the walls in any of those imagined times.
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He extended his hand to touch me.
I remained upright.Would you just give us a moment?”No,” I replied. “I came here because of him. He is able to hear the response.
Thomas took a swallow.Tell me when you returned home.1973.
In an instant, I determined the years.You’ve spent over fifty years at home.”I have.Have you attempted to get in touch with me?
His expression became tense.I first intended to.
I held out.
