I walked to the side of the bed.
Ruth turned her head slowly on the pillow. She looked up at me.
And she gasped.
It was a small sound. Barely a breath. But her whole body went still. Her eyes moved over my face. My hair. My chin. My hands.
“Oh,” she whispered. “Oh, my goodness.”
“Hi,” I said. My voice came out in a croak. “I’m Daniel.”
“You look just like him,” Ruth said. “Just like the Christmas pictures. He had that same cowlick. Right there. In the front.”
I reached up and touched the cowlick at the front of my hair without thinking. My father’s cowlick. He used to say it was the bane of his existence.
“Can I…” Ruth lifted her thin, shaking hand. “Could I touch your face? Just once? I never got to touch his face when he was grown up. Only in pictures.”
I knelt down next to the bed so she could reach.
She put her hand on my cheek. Her fingers were cold and light as paper. She ran her thumb over my eyebrow. Over my nose. Over my chin. Slowly. Like she was memorizing me.
“Michael,” she whispered.
“Daniel,” I said gently.
“I know,” she said. She smiled. “I know, sweetheart. I just wanted to say his name out loud. To somebody who knew him. I’ve never been able to say it out loud.”
“You can say it as much as you want,” I said.
She started crying again.
“Tell me about him,” she said. “Please. Tell me what he was like. Not the pictures. The real him. I’ve only ever had pictures.”
So I told her.
I knelt on the floor of Room 214 with my grandmother’s hand on my shoulder and my birth grandmother’s hand on my cheek, and I told her about my father.
I told her that he was an electrician. That he could fix anything. That he once rewired our whole house in a weekend because he didn’t trust the guy who did it before.
I told her that he loved the Cincinnati Reds more than almost anything. That he took me to Opening Day every single year, even when we couldn’t afford it, and we’d sit in the cheap seats and eat hot dogs and he’d yell at the umpires until his voice was gone.
I told her he made pancakes every Saturday morning. Shaped like Mickey Mouse. He burned the ears every single time.
I told her he whistled when he worked. Always the same song. Some old Beatles tune.
“‘Here Comes the Sun,’” Ruth whispered.
I stared at her.
“How did you know that?”
She smiled. Tears were running down her face.
“I sang it to him,” she said. “That night. In this room. I sang it to him over and over for three hours while he slept. It was the only song I could think of.”
Behind me, Grandma made a sound like her heart had broken open.
“He whistled it his whole life,” she said. “Every single day. I never knew where he got it. I never taught it to him. Frank didn’t even like the Beatles.”
Ruth closed her eyes. She was smiling.
“He remembered,” she whispered. “Somehow. He remembered.”
I couldn’t talk anymore. I just put my head down on the edge of her bed and cried.
Ethan Blake is a skilled Creative Content Specialist with a talent for crafting engaging and thought-provoking narratives. With a strong background in storytelling and digital content creation, Ethan brings a unique perspective to his role at TheArchivists, where he curates and produces captivating content for a global audience.
Ethan holds a degree in Communications from Zurich University, where he developed his expertise in storytelling, media strategy, and audience engagement. Known for his ability to blend creativity with analytical precision, he excels at creating content that not only entertains but also connects deeply with readers.
At TheArchivists, Ethan specializes in uncovering compelling stories that reflect a wide range of human experiences. His work is celebrated for its authenticity, creativity, and ability to spark meaningful conversations, earning him recognition among peers and readers alike.
Passionate about the art of storytelling, Ethan enjoys exploring themes of culture, history, and personal growth, aiming to inspire and inform with every piece he creates. Dedicated to making a lasting impact, Ethan continues to push boundaries in the ever-evolving world of digital content.