His fingerprints are coarser than the wood he hopes to recognize. His cane catches chains holding the table to this place that’s held him longer. Perfumed memories belie time; the fresh, warm scents of her laughter and tears surprise him. He almost believes he can hear her smile widen, taste her molasses eyes gleam.
But he knows things have changed. His hands can’t prove they’ve been here before. Everything, surely, looks different. Promises they carved have weathered away, but a matrix of nodes engenders goosebumps up his arm.
Preparing their picnic, he envisions her reading what she’s written across his skin.