The Ward Doors and Yellow Paper

The nurse station smells of disinfectant and wet chalk dust. I hold the green enamel cup, its weight uneven in my hand. The clipboard listing my name is attached to the wall, listing dates like 1987 and 2003, years I never lived. Across the examination table, the man with the chipped collar smiles; he has my eyes, but they focus on a spot beyond the ceiling tiles. He shifts his weight, and his knee makes a sudden, warm indent in the thin green rug. Behind him, a smaller version of him stands, wearing a shirt that smells of cut grass and salt air. I recognize the set of his shoulders, the way his hands rest. He looks at me, and the air temperature drops two degrees. I see the initials written on the corner of the postcard, a cursive I taught myself when I was ten, a place marked only by a deep orange stain on the paper. I turn the postcard over, and the boy reaches out a hand.