Who Am I?

Worn old man picture

I awake.

Who am I?

What room is this?  Whose bed?

Light shines through the soft-curtained window.  Clouds hang lazily in a blue sky.

I hear birds singing.

I get up, groaning.

I am an old man.

A mirror.  I approach.

A man in the glass looks back at me: unshaven, heavy lines, wispy tousled grey hair, age spots, sallow eyes.

This is me?

I want to say hello, to hear the sound of my voice, but I don't.  I turn to the door.

A hallway.  Stairs.  Photos of children on the wall.  I stare a moment at their happy faces.

The front door.  A kitchen.

I am hungry.

A grey fridge stands in the corner, a note stuck to it.  Large letters.

"John," it begins.

Am I John?

"You have lost your memory.  It happens every night.  Don't worry.  I'll be home soon.  There is food in the fridge.

Love, Jenny."

Jenny.

Who is Jenny? Is she my wife?

I open the fridge.  A small tupperware bowl contains a salad.  I find a fork in the drying rack.  I eat the salad standing up.

The kitchen is tidy.  I like that.

I wash the bowl and fork and leave them to dry.

Should I wait?

I walk through the house, a stranger's house. I feel like an intruder.

I hear a car drive by.  I look through the window to see a pretty, treelined avenue.

I need to leave the house.

I do.

Walking.

Wind in the trees, whispering, but not to me.

Houses neatly line the road.  Flowers. Lawn.  White fences.

In the distance, a child shouts.

Walking.

An old woman approaches, pulling a trolley behind her.  She looks at me, curiously.

I look at her.  She has a kind, smiling face. Tired eyes.

"John," she says, and takes my hand.

I think she is my wife.

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