Seeing Me

I woke up in my father’s house, but I was afraid to come out of my room. I lay there in the guest bedroom, hiding from the sad and scary scenes that my mind was conjuring up. The Newfoundland sun illuminated the green, guest room curtains. His wife, Myrna, had already left for work. I heard her remind him how to work the TV, plant a big smooch on him, and close the door.

Did he remember I was there?

Would he know me?

Would I frighten him?

Would he know me?

I dressed and slunk into the bathroom. Did my business and flushed. Headed toward the sink. Gasped and reeled back from the white-haired man looking at me through the open bathroom window. My father.

“Oh, hello!” I said.

“I was wondering who’s hiding in here.”

“It’s Pauline,” I answered.

“I thought it might be Myrna.”

I came out of the bathroom to get a towel from my room, but I must have been a little flustered. The reason for going back in the room eluded me. I stood there looking around like a confused cat. My dad appeared at the door.

“I forgot what I came in here for,” I said.

My dad pointed to a variety of items in the room. “That, or that, or that,” he said.

I followed his suggestions and saw the folded white towels left by Myrna.

“Yes, thanks!” I snatched up the towel and scooched behind him to exit the room. Then I stopped and hugged him from behind, resting my head on his shoulder. I wasn’t sure he knew me.

“My beautiful daughter. I love you.”

My heart smiled as I walked away. Then I turned and looked into his infant-old man eyes and touched his crinkly cheek. “I love you too.”

Whatever else this trip brings, or doesn’t bring, I have that moment. And I hope that somewhere, he does too.