Afterimage

Inside the lobby I am greeted by the nauseous smell of deodorizer and stale coffee. I hate this place. 

I make myself walk the freshly waxed hallway. I see her in the community dining room. She sits in her wheelchair at a table. Alone.

I pull a chair next to her. I visit her every afternoon.

She’s holding a photograph of herself. She stares at it, studies it, turns it around with fingers that are knotted roots. Taken 66 years ago. Gorgeous. Radiant. But she can’t recall who it is.

She notices my presence. She looks up at me with unclouded blue eyes, still shining, content with a life well-lived. But she doesn’t recognize me, her youngest son.

She looks back at her photo. Black and white. Her youthful image smiles back at her like a ghost.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” she asks me, the stranger sitting next to her.

“Yes,” I answer my mother. “She looks a lot like you.”