Shards of Home

He had woken up in a white room. White sheets, white walls, white lights. Even the toilet seats were white. And it was spinning, the room was spinning.

"You're a very lucky young man," the nurse had said as she fussed about. "Does it hurt, love?"

At that time, all he remembered was the sound of screeching tyres. Later, he was told that a car had careened into the wall inches from where he was standing. A piece of the wall had hit him in the head.

"Oh, and the paramedics found this in your hand," the nurse had chirped as she left the room.

It was a piece of glass. What had happened was that a glint had caught his eye, and he had stopped to pick it up. If not, he would have been in the way of the car making an acquaintance with the wall.

He had kept that piece of glass, and scratched a date on the surface.

~

He remembered the day now with a sort of detachment, much like remembering a line from a book or a story from a movie, that it didn't happen to him.

The sun kissing her skin, the wind playfully twirling her hair, the smell of sun-lotion and her strawberry shampoo filling his nostrils. She was reading Paulo Coelho's The Zahir as she laid on his lap. He had kissed her then; she tasted like the oranges she had just eaten.

She had stepped on a piece of glass as they walked back to his car, breaking it in two and cutting her foot.

"You keep this one, and I'll keep this one."

Why? It's a piece of glass.

"What? I bled to obtain it! Keep it, okay? I'll keep mine as well. Always. Promise?"

I promise.

He went home and scratched an inscription on the surface: Always. Promise.

A month later, she was gone, but that little shard remained. He wanted to throw it away, but his promise remained as well.

Always. Promise.

~

this is part 2 of a story. part 1 is here.