18

He can tell that she is there, but he cannot see her. The ranch house sits on a comfortable bit of land, and beyond this land is a large expanse of water. He cannot see the opposite shore. Now, he is in the living room of the house. There is a homey feel to it: knit afghans, crocheted pillows, comfortable couch and loveseat. A bay window. By the look of the various wood work about the house, someone is handy with carpentry projects. They say that memories do not include smells, but there is a gentle aroma of cooking meat. Thanksgiving. Or a homecoming. Or some other family event. He remembers football. Not terribly exciting memories, he thinks. And maybe this is the point of these memories. And she is there. He cannot yet see her. The memory ends for the moment, and he opens his eyes.