Underwater: SILVER BIRCHES
by Dina Toyoda
We walk side by side on the path between the trees. Mama’s and papa’s arms are linked with mine. The silver birches drop their leaves – yellow, orange and red gifts, they cushion out footsteps. It smells like home, like autumn, like something that passed and will never come again.
At night we sit in a small room by the fire. My toes are cold. I take one foot out of a slipper. The big toe is sticking from a hole in a sock. I hold it in my hand. Something enters my mind then, some uneasiness. It sucks away all the warmth in the room. I realize, what it is: my parents are both gone, all I have is the memory of their faces, lit up by the fire.
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A white clad nurse turns to leave the room. It doesn’t look like this patient will wake up any time soon. She’s already been in a coma for more than a week.
One of the young woman’s feet is sticking out of the covers. It’s so white and fragile looking, the nurse presses it in her hand and tries to warm it up.
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