# 2

Jack pulled the blanket up tighter on his father’s shoulders, careful not to brush it against the old man’s gray stubbled chin. He tucked gently, almost absentmindedly, concentrating on anything else in the dim room apart from the task at hand; neither man gave any attention to the act itself, the tucking in, the signal another visit was ending, and through this unacknowledged cooperation the separation ritual was allowed to continue. His father usually wound down with a few sighs and drifted off, into sleep or the television or 1962,  Jack never could tell. All he could study was Faron’s chest, the slowing, calming rhythm that allowed both men to finally breathe deeply, a slow cleansing release of survivor’s relief.  Every visit also began with exaggerated respiration, one on each side of the peeling blue door, the son steeling himself, clearing his head of the world outside and of the past rearing up wildly from the base of his brain, curling around his head’s gray fissures and settling in, tainted water seeking the cracks on a driveway, tendrils filling every route of thought. He exhaled the past, a full burst to the last drop in his lungs, leaving the infested air on the door jamb where he would be sure to catch it upon his first breath back outside. At the quick rap on the door, quiet to not startle the old man into confusion and anger but loud enough to be heard, for a slept-through visit was a sin on par with Hitler’s, the father’s sharp intake of breath was always sparked with surprise, of long-suffering faith rewarded, of despairing doubts stomped on and kicked out. On both sides of the door the air was heavy with a palpable mixture of dread, apprehension, agitation, and regret, both men knowing the ensuing combination could be affirming or rancorous, sweetening or souring based on the top note added by the first exchange inside the room.