Patrick

I sit on the bed in the beige light of the hospice and turn the pulpy pages of the book. One hand holds the glossy slick cover breaking its spine with my grip, and the other holds his warm dry hand.

The story I read is a dime a dozen love story that fails to distract from the rattle in his chest and the shallow breaths he draws. I refuse to believe he will die, though he hasn't said a word since I came in. As the hero rescues the abused dog and the heroine throws out a witty one liner I start to slide my hand from his. He grips my hand tight, and I stay. I never saw him again.

Most people thought he was Irish because of his first name, Patrick. They didn't realize it was a name given to him by teachers who couldn't pronounce his Italian one, a name I know longer remember. He had a talent for telling the truth no matter who didn't want to hear it. He was an artist who never got discovered, and an alcoholic who never got sober. He thanked his addiction for his son. A son who was the result of an affair with a woman he never stopped loving.

The first time I saw him he was introduced by a pointed finger "That's Patrick, you can say anything to him".

She pointed to a man stooped slightly with age, only when he wasn't pulling himself up with pride, or leaning against a parking meter smoking a cigarette. His hair was white, wispy but still retained the wildness of youth. His eyes were sharp though clouded a blue-brown, his nose large and Italian.

I can't say when he took me under his liver spotted, nicotine tinged wing, but I fit in there perfectly. He pushed for me to be heard, pushed for me to be okay, he loved me like the father I'd lost and that love carried me through one of the harder years of my life. His presence was the one right in a life of insecurity. Now, when I walk past a window that shows my reflection I remember him walking beside me saying "Yeah, we look good kid."