Fiction: The Visit

By Paul E Goldberg

 

You were sick and we came to visit you. It was nighttime but not that late. I don’t remember the trip. Many years later I have only these recollections: 

 

My cousin. Only in your early twenties. That’s so young—you were still a girl really. 

 

You were sitting on the living room couch. The room glowed with a soft reddish light—incandescent lamps reflecting off dark red wallpaper. The room was warm but not stuffy. There was an undertone of cigarette smoke (our moms—they were sisters—were heavy smokers). The room was cozy and welcoming as always. 

 

I was a bit sleepy, maybe a bit confused. I was clear as to where I was but yet there was a tinge of the dreamlike. 

 

I remember saying that I was very sorry you were not feeling well. Mom and I had rehearsed this expression of concern before the visit. I was shy and words seldom came on their own. 

 

My mom and your mom and dad were there but I have only a vague recollection of their presence. 

 

I remember that you were sick to your stomach. There was a basin by your side. You were sitting on the couch, your legs propped up. You were in your pajamas, or no, a nightgown. I remember that because I saw you had freckles on your legs.

 

That’s all I remember.

 

 I realize now they brought me over to say goodbye to you.

 

 You died a few days later.   

  

  It was so long ago. I visit your grave now and then. 

 

   I often bring flowers.

 

 Young girls should get flowers.

 

 

 

 

 

Paul E Goldberg is a retired physician who lives in Eastern Pennsylvania. He incorporates elements of myth, religion and a sense of inwardness in his writing. He’s published in SciPhi Journal, Literally Stories, Flash Fiction Magazine and Psychedelics Today [non-fiction]. Paul is a member of the creative writing group at the Trenton Area Soup Kitchen.