Henry and Jim

Henry and Jim By J.M. Snyder His folded hands are pale and fragile in the early morning light, the faint veins beneath translucent skin like faded ink on forgotten love letters written long ago. His fingers lace through mine; his body curves along my back, still asleep despite the sun that spills between the shades. I lie awake for long minutes, clasped tight against him, unable or unwilling to move and bring the day crashing in. Only in sleep am I sure that he fully remembers me. When he wakes, the sun will burn that memory away and I’ll have to watch him struggle to recall my name. After a moment or two he’ll get it without my prompting but one day I know it will be gone, lost like the dozen other little things he no longer remembers, and no matter how long I stare into his weathered blue eyes, he won’t be able to get it back. Cradled in his arms, I squeeze his hands in my arthritic fists and pray this isn’t that day. After some time he stirs, his even breath breaking with a shuddery sigh that tells me he’s up. There’s a scary moment when he freezes against me, unsure of where he is or who I am. I hold my breath and wait for the moment it all falls into place. His thumb smoothes along my wrist, and an eternity passes before he kisses behind my ear, my name a whisper on his lips. “Henry.” I sigh, relieved. Today he still remembers, and that gives me the strength to get out of bed. “Morning, Jim.” I stretch like an old cat, first one arm then the other, feeling the blush of energy as my blood stirs and familiar aches settle into place. Over my shoulder I see Jim watching, a half smile on his face that tells me he still likes what he sees. As I reach for my robe, I ask him, “How about some eggs this morning? That sound good?” “You know how I like them,” he says, voice still graveled from sleep. His reply wearies me—I don’t know if he’s forgotten how he prefers his eggs or if he simply trusts me to get them right. I want to believe in his trust, so I don’t push it. After fifty years of living with Jim, of loving him, I choose my battles carefully, and this isn’t one either of us would win. Leaning across the bed, I plant a quick kiss on the corner of his mouth. “Be down in ten minutes,” I murmur. His gnarled fingers catch the knot in the belt of my robe and keep me close. My lower back groans in protest, but I brush the wisps of white hair from his forehead and smile through the discomfort as he tells me, “I have to shower.” “Jim,” I sigh. When I close my eyes he’s eighteen again, the fingers at my waist long and graceful and firm, his gaunt cheeks smooth and unwrinkled, his lips a wet smile below dark eyes and darker hair. It pains me to have to remind him, “We showered last night.” He runs a hand through his thinning hair, then laughs. “Ten minutes then,” he says with a playful poke at my stomach. I catch his hand in mine and lean against it heavily to help myself up.