Nursing home Carl

He never told me his actual name.
I called him Carl.
Gray-haired, war-veteran, nursing-home Carl. Cane and cardigan included.

"We met in Paris, 1st semester. We had know each other long before that, but that was the first time we met. It was in the library, we reached for the same book, Call of the Wild, Jack London. Me for a school report, her for entertainment." He leaned in toward me, resting upon his cane, his eyes widened through his thick black-framed glasses, "We made out, until we got kicked out." He sat back with a chuckle.

"I'll never forget that summer dress. Cream, with yellow flowers."

I looked up at him as he spoke, his lips were dry, as usual. His speech was slow, as if he was allowing the words to get to heaven before he spoke again.

"And, oh how'd she dance," he closed his eyes and tilted his head back slightly, re-imagining it in his mind, "and i'm not talking about dancing like moving your hands and your arms and your feet," he waved his hands around and continued, "I'm talking about dancing like letting go."

"She would tell me things like, 'Many men hold a key to my heart, but you, you are the only man who was born with one,' And it wasn't the words she used or the way she said it, but the way that she meant it."

He looked off into the distance, "She always loved rooftops."

He broke eye contact with the distance, looked down, and began to chuckle, "I remember, one time," he was forced to stop as his chuckling grew to giggling, "one time, she was so mad at me," tears began to form in the corner of his eyes because of his laughter, his face wrinkled because of his smile, "she stomped her foot on the ground, pointed to the door, and yelled, in the dead of winter, 'Go get me a snow cone and don't come back 'til you do!'"

We both laughed. It grew quite, again he looked down, he pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his nose. Straightening the corners with his hands he looked up at me. The tears were still in his eyes, but they had changed, they were sadder. "She never did get that snow cone."

I too began to cry.

"And every time I get blood on my fingers," he now held back sobbing, "I want to blame her so badly," he paused, "but most of the time, it's merely just a paper cut."




I had only asked his religious beliefs.