By AYANA ALLES
It is a strange thing, when a lifetime of memories consolidates into the tiles and sheets of a hospital room. The world narrows to white walls and blue curtains, beeps and cries, a persistent chemical stench. It’s not like there are gaping holes in my mind. It is more like: I do not know what is gone. Who is gone. I cannot miss them, so I do not feel an ache for their loss. Until they visit me.
There is the woman with curls and a smile that disappears as fast as it rises. She is always the first to grab my hand, like she is afraid one day she will reach out and there will be nothing but air. It is only my mind that is gone, I want to tell her. Do not worry about my body. But I am silent. Then there is the man. He has her eyes, dark and wide, but they rarely meet mine. He does not reach out, does not offer smiles and platitudes. If I did not know better, I would think he is here to inspect the cracks in the floor. If I did not know better, I would think he has forgotten too.
The ones that hurt the most are the children. There are three of them. I am told their names, again and again, but they fade away like their faces, a picture forever out of focus. One has taken after his father, with quiet somber manners. But when it is just us, he tells me of his burdens, things I know I only hear because I will not remember them. There is a girl, with braids and round glasses and a head buried in a book. I find it impossible that she flips through the pages that fast. I question her and she sighs and tells me the last thing that happened. I learn, again and again, about dragon fights and underwater kisses and stolen treasure. The little one jumps on my bed and it hurts but I don’t tell her. She pokes my stomach and laughs until the world shakes. That is the sound I want to remember the most. But I never do.
I don’t deserve the titles they bestow upon me. Dad, Grandpa. Those belong to the man who held them, wiped their tears, and helped them cross the street. The man who could lift them up, who doesn’t make their eyes water when they think he isn’t looking. I hate him. I wish they didn’t come, because that is the only time I remember him.
Except, the man I am now means something to them. Maybe that has to be enough.
Writer | Ayana Alles ’28 | aalles28@amherst.edu
Editor | Alex Womack ’27 | awomack27@amherst.edu