He wakes into a rare moment of clarity, sensing everything around him a way he hasn't in a long while. The shard of winter daylight on the wall, a wool blanket crumpled under his hand and the most familiar whiff of jasmine, so soft and so sweet, flowing up his nostrils to rest somewhere behind his eyes. He blinks slowly as his mind wakens, corners of it rolling and extending in turns, with his body still he basks in the energy of whirring neurons.
He can see that it had been snowing. There’s the foamy roll of snow resting on the window ledge, and the strange flat clearness of the air visible even through the window. He feels rather warm. The heater must be on and someone, whoever it may be, is taking care of him on this frigid day. His mind twists on itself, an old cat stretching its limbs after a long nap, preparing for action- now where is the jasmine and why are there pangs in his chest?
He leans forward and peeks through the window.
The street below is a canal of soft cream with the tops of cars reflecting the dove-grey sky. He feels such an intense bout of delight that he started, trying to stand up and push aside the glass. His heart feels strong as a sail brimming with salted air yet he sees his hands trembling in front of him, senses the fragility in his bones. He is confused, for an instant, before realising that none of this matters. None of it matters because today is the day!
Today is the day he meets her for the first time, today he asks her to have coffee with him, today he tells the silly story and stutters- ruining- absolutely ruining a perfect moment and it is today, so he must go now. He turns with some effort to look at the clock on the wall. Seven minutes to put on a jacket and dash down the stairs. He knows he can do it, he's done it before, he just needs to find the big blue jacket. Right now.
It's only when the hands arrive on his shoulders that he notices the fallen cup on the floor, poised perfectly above a spreading stain. The hands are speaking soft words, soothing him, while he feels his limbs rattling like loose keys in a pocket. He needs the blue jacket! But he is being lifted by other faceless hands, cocooned in bedsheets on a small bed, and why? Why is he not upright and rushing through the snow? Why is he not making jokes with her, hoping she likes him maybe a little bit, in his wet shoes and the edges of him darkened by melting snow?
Who owns the white hands stroking his own, wafts of jasmine bringing him closer to her but not her? The skin on his hands have lost their softness so long ago, he can almost hear the rustling of aging cells, chafed and floating into the ether. He remembers holding her jasmine-scented hands, softer than a dream, the day they first met and then a long, long time afterward, when she drifted from this life into the next.
He feels himself fading inside the husk of this body, whoever thought a long life is a blessing is an abject fool. Look at him now! Heavy with loss and numb as a log of petrified wood. His eyes and his mind flutter to a halting close while the hands smooth over his bedcovers, leaving him to another dreamless sleep.
In his last moment of lucidity he gives himself a silent wish- to be outside, free, buried beneath the memory of this snow day with her.