Balloons

            David drifts between consciousness and peaceful sleep. He occasionally asks for a glass of his familiar warm honey water, or shifts his legs. He’s found a fairly comfortable position with his knees over the triangular “Nautica” pillow I bought years ago at a discount home furnishings store.

            He sleeps with his glasses on. It looks uncomfortable: for me part of the pleasure of sleep is taking my glasses off and completely relaxing. But David has a different relationship with his glasses; he’s not comfortable unless he knows where they are; he can’t see without them.

            Yesterday, as I sat with him, he looked up above the doorway at the corner of the room, frowned, and said, impatient and annoyed, “Could somebody get the balloons out of here?”

            He spoke so confidently and looked so intently that I immediately turned, fully expecting to see some brightly colored objects near the doorway. But there was nothing but empty wall and ceiling.

            “I don’t see any balloons,” I said apologetically.

            “Well, I do.” And with that the conversation ended.

            Annie arrived home on Monday, around 11 p.m. after flying halfway around the world from Beijing. David had asked about her a few times and I sensed he was holding on to see her. However, that was sixty hours ago. Matt arrived Saturday, his car full of personal belongings he’ll need in the next few weeks. He’ll return to Chicago to empty his storage unit later.

            David doesn’t seem to be in pain, unless he tries to move or sit up. It’s quiet now, no noise except the floor fan humming and his steady breathing.