The Vitamin Regimen of Forgotten Summers

The vitamin regimen awaited on the nightstand, a colorful row of promises in plastic capsules. Dad still took them faithfully, even as everything else—the names, the years, my face—dissolved like sugar in warm water.

I found him in the common room, staring at the goldfish tank with the intensity he'd once reserved for baseball games. The orange fish darted through fake aquatic plants, endless loops of forgetting and remembering, their three-second spans almost enviable.

"They won today," he said, not looking at me. "Bottom of the ninth."

There was no game on. There hadn't been a game on since the facility removed the televisions last year, too much agitation when teams lost.

"Who won, Dad?"

"We did," he said, finally turning. His old baseball cap sat crooked on his head, the Yankees logo faded to a ghost of navy. The hat was older than me, sweat-stained and sacred, the only thing he'd insisted on keeping when we sold the house.

I reached into my bag and pulled out the papaya, its skin mottled yellow-green like a bruised sunset. "I brought you something. Remember how Mom used to buy these?"

He stared at the fruit, then up at me. For a moment, just a heartbeat, I saw it: recognition swimming behind the fog like that goldfish breaking the surface.

"Papaya," he said. "She'd eat them with lime. On the porch. When the game was on."

My throat tightened. I sliced it open right there, the sweet, musky scent filling the sterile room. We sat together while he ate with messy, ancient patience, the goldfish circling their tank, his baseball cap casting a shadow over eyes that suddenly, miraculously, knew me.

"Good game," he said, and I squeezed his hand and didn't correct him.