“You look just like him,” Ruth said. “Just like the Christmas pictures. He had that same cowlick. Right there. In the front.”
I reached up and touched the cowlick at the front of my hair without thinking. My father’s cowlick. He used to say it was the bane of his existence.
“Can I…” Ruth lifted her thin, shaking hand. “Could I touch your face? Just once? I never got to touch his face when he was grown up. Only in pictures.”
I knelt down next to the bed so she could reach.
She put her hand on my cheek. Her fingers were cold and light as paper. She ran her thumb over my eyebrow. Over my nose. Over my chin. Slowly. Like she was memorizing me.
“Michael,” she whispered.
“Daniel,” I said gently.
“I know,” she said. She smiled. “I know, sweetheart. I just wanted to say his name out loud. To somebody who knew him. I’ve never been able to say it out loud.”
