Coming of age storry set in 1920s Paris, told from the perspective of an old, dying woman who is remembering her friend who vanished and was never found - or even searched for.
My room is bright today, and airy. Outside, the grounds seem to be celebrating, as if they know that the time is soon. The grass is a deeper shade of green than I have ever seen it, and the water in the fountain shines, opalescent. Lightness abounds. The sunlight filters in through my window and speckles across the dull grey carpet, dappling, like ripples of cloud sometimes do in summer. The summer that is coming, bittersweet.
My nurse today is a young girl. I have never seen her before, but I recognise her: her hair cut into a shoulder length bob, brown and flicking out a little, her straight back as she folds my towels, facing away from me; her pointed chin. She has grace, somewhat. She reminds me of someone, although I cannot think who. The years do this, they wear away memories.
Some, of course, still stand out.
I wonder what this nurse’s name is. It doesn’t matter. I remember, now, and I know who she will always be, to me.
You remember more things, sometimes, as you grow older. You lose things too, the immediate things, but reminisce comes much more easily as your time draws closer. Even things, mostly things, or people, that you haven’t thought about in years. A lifetime. Or at least, things that you have tried with all your will not to think about.
The nurse turns around. She has a plump face, a thick, dark fringe, and red lips, pursed like Cupid’s bow.