Seeing Him Through

Tales from the Moonlit Path/Demented Mothers’ Day issue/May 2024

Where is Herman? Where is Herman?

Herman is not in his room, on his hospital bed, underneath his patchwork quilt.  Herman is not in the bathroom, sitting on the commode. Oh, where is Herman?

“Herman! Herman?”

Has he forgotten his name? Perhaps I might as well be saying, “Sermon! Sermon?”

Of course, Herman could be dead somewhere. That’s a strong possibility. Since I’m quite a bit younger than my husband, ten years to be exact, I’ve expected (hoped for) him to be dead for some time.

Ah! There’s Herman, outside, on the other side of the window of all places, bathed in light, tilting a bit, like a ruin, standing beside my rose bush, ironically beside the oak tree under whose canopy of branches I harvest my mushrooms.

“Oh, Herman,” I scold. He is not supposed to get out of bed by himself, let alone leave the house. He knows better, or he knew better, until today.

My hand covers his, our wedding bands touching. He pulls away. Oh, Herman.

“It’s too early to be out. You’re half naked. You haven’t had your breakfast.” My slippers are soaking in the morning dew. What a nuisance!

Herman begins to cry. A light rain sprinkles.

“And you haven’t got your teeth! That won’t do.”

Herman cries harder, gums showing.