Owen walked down the hallway.
He stopped outside Frank’s door.
“Want me to come with you?” I asked.
He shook his head.
“I think I need to do this alone.”
He opened the door.
From the hallway, I could see Frank sitting in bed.
He looked smaller than the man I remembered.
“Owen?”
“Hi, Dad.”
“You went to the movies?”
“Yeah.”
“What did you see?”
“Spider-Man.”
A soft smile appeared on Frank’s face.
“We used to watch those.”
Owen sat beside him.
“I remember.”
Frank looked down at his hands.
“I wasn’t always good to you.”
Owen said nothing.
“I forget a lot now.”
Frank’s hands trembled slightly.
“But I remember some things.”
He looked at his son.
“I remember the parking lot.”
Owen froze.
“The spilled drink,” Frank continued.
“You were little.”
His voice cracked.
“And I was angry.”
Frank shook his head.
“My father was like that too.”
He looked ashamed.
“I promised myself I wouldn’t become him.”
A long pause.
“But somehow I did.”
Owen sat quietly.
“I’m sorry, son.”
Frank looked directly at him.
“I don’t know how long I’m going to remember who you are.”
His eyes filled with tears.
“So I wanted to tell you while I still could.”
Owen reached out and took his father’s hand.
“Something happened tonight,” he said.
“There was a boy at the theater.”
Frank listened.
“His father grabbed him when they got upset.”
Owen paused.
“And somebody stepped in.”
Frank looked surprised.
“Who?”
Owen hesitated.
“Me.”
Frank’s face changed.
He squeezed Owen’s hand.
“Good.”
He whispered the word again.
“Good.”
Then he said something I will never forget.
“I wish somebody had done that for you.”
Owen’s eyes closed.
“Me too.”
Frank looked down.
“I wish somebody had done it for me.”
The two men sat quietly.
Then Owen leaned forward and hugged his father.
I closed the door gently and went into the kitchen.
I stood over the sink removing popcorn from my hair.
Twenty-three pieces.
I counted.
The next morning, Frank remembered none of the conversation.
