Henry and Jim

Chapter 1

Henry and Jim

By J.M. Snyder

His folded hands are pale and fragile in the

early morning light, the faint veins beneath translucent skin like

faded ink on forgotten love letters written long ago. His fingers

lace through mine; his body curves along my back, still asleep

despite the sun that spills between the shades. I lie awake for

long minutes, clasped tight against him, unable or unwilling to

move and bring the day crashing in. Only in sleep am I sure that he

fully remembers me. When he wakes, the sun will burn that memory

away and I’ll have to watch him struggle to recall my name. After a

moment or two he’ll get it without my prompting but one day I know

it will be gone, lost like the dozen other little things he no

longer remembers, and no matter how long I stare into his weathered

blue eyes, he won’t be able to get it back.

Cradled in his arms, I squeeze his hands in

my arthritic fists and pray this isn’t that day.

After some time he stirs, his even breath

breaking with a shuddery sigh that tells me he’s up. There’s a

scary moment when he freezes against me, unsure of where he is or

who I am. I hold my breath and wait for the moment it all falls

into place. His thumb smoothes along my wrist, and an eternity

passes before he kisses behind my ear, my name a whisper on his

lips. “Henry.”

I sigh, relieved. Today he still remembers,

and that gives me the strength to get out of bed. “Morning, Jim.” I

stretch like an old cat, first one arm then the other, feeling the

blush of energy as my blood stirs and familiar aches settle into

place. Over my shoulder I see Jim watching, a half smile on his

face that tells me he still likes what he sees. As I reach for my

robe, I ask him, “How about some eggs this morning? That sound

good?”

“You know how I like them,” he says, voice

still graveled from sleep. His reply wearies me—I don’t know if

he’s forgotten how he prefers his eggs or if he simply trusts me to

get them right. I want to believe in his trust, so I don’t push it.

After fifty years of living with Jim, of loving him, I choose my

battles carefully, and this isn’t one either of us would win.

Leaning across the bed, I plant a quick kiss

on the corner of his mouth. “Be down in ten minutes,” I murmur.

His gnarled fingers catch the knot in the

belt of my robe and keep me close. My lower back groans in protest,

but I brush the wisps of white hair from his forehead and smile

through the discomfort as he tells me, “I have to shower.”

“Jim,” I sigh. When I close my eyes he’s

eighteen again, the fingers at my waist long and graceful and firm,

his gaunt cheeks smooth and unwrinkled, his lips a wet smile below

dark eyes and darker hair. It pains me to have to remind him, “We

showered last night.”

He runs a hand through his thinning hair,

then laughs. “Ten minutes then,” he says with a playful poke at my

stomach. I catch his hand in mine and lean against it heavily to

help myself up.