Like a Dream, But Not

(published in Back Glance, December 1992)

He woke up. he thought he could hear his son's breathing in the next room, the near-siletn, smooth sound of air in and air out.

He touched his forehead. The room was too dark to let him see anything, but he felt his son's movement, the shift of blanket and sheet.

"Listen," he whispered outloud to no one.

"He listened harder; though he could hear his own breath, thick and heavy under his own heart, there was beneath this the thin frost of his child's breathing.

"The hardwood floor was cold beneath his feet. He held out a hand in front of him, and when he touched the doorjamb, he paused, listened again, heard the life in his child.

"His fingertips led him along the hall to the next room. Then he was in the doorway of a room as dark, as hollow as his own. he flicked on the light.

The room was empty. He had left the bed just as Nathan had made it, the spread merely thrown on over crumbled up sheets, the pillow not quite straight. The toy cars where Nathan left them, the crayons, the colorful balls, stuffed animals. As they were just before the divorce.

Now Nathan will spend every summer with his mother and this was for the best.

He turned off the light and listened. he heard nothing, and then he backed out and moved down the hall, back to his room, his hands at his sides, his fingertips useless.

This happened each night, like a dream, but not.