He doesn’t know that anymore. That he loves the water.
He doesn’t know a lot of things.
He doesn’t know Sophie’s name. She graduated from nursing school two years ago, and he was there, in the third row, in his gray suit. He clapped for her and cried. And afterward, he asked me who the pretty girl in the cap was.
“That’s our daughter,” I told him.
“We have a daughter?” He looked at her across the room with such wonder. “Well, look at that. Isn’t she something?”
“She is.”
“Does she know how proud I am?”
“She knows,” I said. “You’ve been telling her her whole life.”
He doesn’t know our address. He doesn’t know the lake. He doesn’t know Dave, who still visits every Thursday and talks to him about baseball anyway.
Most days, he doesn’t know my name.
