Harold was at home, but he couldn't remember much of what happened in the three days he was in the hospital. He remembered waking up, but he seemed to always be alone in the room, yet Hilly and Victoria kept talking to him as if they'd been there with him.
Now, he was home, not working yet, but at home, where life was familiar. He knew things still were not right. He had a good idea, but forgot it before he could put it on his list of things to do. He stood in his kitchen with the list in his hand, wondering what it was. People always said that they'd remember it eventually, but he wasn't sure he would.
He was making his usual omelet as though it was a Saturday breakfast, broccoli, cheese, and bacon, with a dollop of sour cream on top. His doctor had told him to give up eggs because of his cholesterol, or at least the egg yolks, but he hadn't listened. He even used butter.
Things hadn't been going well. He had put in a load of laundry, but when he'd gone back to throw it in the dryer, the socks were still furry and only the towel was wet. He had shut the washer door and pressed all the buttons again, making sure he had clicked the big one again at the end. He'd waited until the water began to run. The cat - what was his name? - had jumped up onto the washer and pawed at the lid where you were supposed to put in the soap. He had obediently opened the lid and the cat stuck his paw down into the running water and shook it. It hurt to laugh still. After that, he'd wandered around the house until he'd found himself in the kitchen, looking into a half-empty refrigerator. That felt normal.
He nearly put a pat of butter in his tea, but stopped himself. Could he make these eggs for himself?
Hilly and Victoria were at school. Harold felt abandoned. He didn't feel old enough to be left at home alone.
Thank you for listening, jules
Now, he was home, not working yet, but at home, where life was familiar. He knew things still were not right. He had a good idea, but forgot it before he could put it on his list of things to do. He stood in his kitchen with the list in his hand, wondering what it was. People always said that they'd remember it eventually, but he wasn't sure he would.
He was making his usual omelet as though it was a Saturday breakfast, broccoli, cheese, and bacon, with a dollop of sour cream on top. His doctor had told him to give up eggs because of his cholesterol, or at least the egg yolks, but he hadn't listened. He even used butter.
Things hadn't been going well. He had put in a load of laundry, but when he'd gone back to throw it in the dryer, the socks were still furry and only the towel was wet. He had shut the washer door and pressed all the buttons again, making sure he had clicked the big one again at the end. He'd waited until the water began to run. The cat - what was his name? - had jumped up onto the washer and pawed at the lid where you were supposed to put in the soap. He had obediently opened the lid and the cat stuck his paw down into the running water and shook it. It hurt to laugh still. After that, he'd wandered around the house until he'd found himself in the kitchen, looking into a half-empty refrigerator. That felt normal.
He nearly put a pat of butter in his tea, but stopped himself. Could he make these eggs for himself?
Hilly and Victoria were at school. Harold felt abandoned. He didn't feel old enough to be left at home alone.
Thank you for listening, jules
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