Henry and Jim
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
