Opening

My father looked smaller than before, sitting on his hospital bed, his hair unkempt, his face unshaven. I sat on a sofa several feet away from him, enshrouded in a yellow hospital paper gown, gloved and masked, precautions taken to protect me from his MRSA infection. But more than anything, I kept my heart protected. From him. We’d never had a good relationship. We’d been in this cycle for nine months now: hospital, rehab, home; repeat. I was exhausted by it all.

“Do you remember Ollie?” he asked suddenly out of nowhere, his voice weak. His question surprised me.

“I do,” I answered. Every so often, we’d go to the park and a tree would “talk” to me, but it only happened when my dad and I were together. The tree’s name was Ollie.

“You loved Ollie the tree.” Dad smiled, clearly transported back in time, remembering a seven-year-old me, sitting next to the tree.

“I was sad when I’d go by myself and he wouldn’t talk to me,” I told my father. “The only times he did, telling me about his adventures with the other trees, were when I was with you.” I smiled and leaned toward him. “You were Ollie, weren’t you?”

My dad grinned, but didn’t answer my question. “I’m so happy you’re here. It really means a lot to me.”

“I’m glad I came, too, Dad.” I walked over to his bed and squeezed his hand through my gloves.