He's greeted by a sad sort of clanging, the tin-toned melody of the hallway piano filtering through the open windows and across the porch steps to meet him in the front yard. It's too cold today for the windows to be open.
He burrows further into his scarf, the blue and red striped one Mom made for him all those years ago. She must have woven some kind of magic into the thread because even after all these years, winters that splashed it with snowflakes and runny nose wipes, hundreds of washes and thousands of days, it's still as soft and warm as the day she gave it to him, not an ounce of wear, not a touch of fading. He smiles for a moment, breathing in the crisp Maine air that's just a touch too cold for comfort through the cottony filter of the scarf covering his mouth then he bounds up the stairs. Home.
The music stops as he knocks on the door, a filtered shuffling taking its place as someone approaches the door. The heavy wood swings open and there she is, Mom; her hair has faded to a shimmering silver, her skin soft and paper-thin, but the warmth is still there behind her familiar brown eyes when she smiles; love like that never ages.
"Henry," she breathes, opening her arms for a hug he quickly walks into, cradling her tiny frame against his chest. She's never been frail his mother, she's always been strong and stubborn, resilient and firm and there, but he can't help but notice how small she feels in his arms, as if a strong gust of wind would just blow her away.
"Mom, it's freezing in here. Why do you have the windows open?" He asks as he pulls out of the embrace, looping one of her hands through his arm so he can support her as they walk further into the house.
"Oh, Henry," she scoffs, "nonsense. It's supposed to be 95 degrees today. I thought it would be nice to have a little breeze before the heat sets in this afternoon. Maybe we can go for ice cream later, would you like that?"
"Mom," he stops, turning so they're facing each other. "Mom, look at me. It's the middle of November. Thanksgiving is next week. It's supposed to snow later today."
The way her face pinches up in confusion, brows furrowing and framing deep pools of whiskey-colored despair staring back at him cuts him like a knife. He couldn't just let it go, he couldn't just play along, he had to do this. He had to wound her when she's done nothing at all.
"But, it's warm," she argues, stepping away on shaky legs; he'll never understand why she insists on wearing heels, even at her age. "We were going to get ice cream. I just wanted to take you for ice cream. You always used to love that...when you were a little boy." He can see the moment the clarity comes back to her, a brief flickering sigh of reality entering her lungs. "Oh, Henry. You're not a little boy anymore." She steps back to him, lifting a hand to cup his cheek. "You're grown, and I missed it all."
There are tears gathering in her eyes and damn it, this was not the point of today. He wasn't supposed to upset her today.
"No, you didn't Moma, you were here the whole time." Relax. Relate. Release. Relax, relate, release. He repeats it to himself, over and over in his mind like a mantra, willing it to bring him some kind of peace or insight or whatever bollocks that therapist he pays too much money to help him deal with all of this said those three stupid words were supposed to bring. It only makes him want to cry more. "You just don't remember," he finally says around his tears.
"Don't cry, my Little Prince. Don't cry," she coos, wiping away his tears with the papery pads of her fingers. "I'm right here."
And for a second she is. He can see her, she's there, his mother, not the weathering shell decorated with the scraps of her mind, but her. The gratitude punches him in the gut, bubbling out in a gasp of laughter as he pulls her into another hug, squeezing just a little bit too tight and breathing in the traces of vanilla and clove and a whisper of apple that always seems to cling to her skin.
But just like that, the moment is gone.
She stiffens in his arms, pulling away from him like a startled deer. "Henry. You're home," she repeats, stepping in for another hug that feels more like someone has kicked him in the teeth. "You know what I thought we'd do today? Why don't we go for ice cream, would you like that?"
"Sure, Mom. Let's go get ice cream," he warbles, voice watery and thick. "Let's get your coat, it's a bit chilly outside."
"Nonsense, it's supposed to be 95 degrees today." She waves him off with a scoff and a smile, but he pulls her coat from the hallway closet just the same. A wry grin tips at his lips when she rolls her eyes but complies and slides it on, for his sake, she always would do anything for his sake.
He makes sure she's bundled up tight, her coat buttoned and her gloves tugged on, her scarf knotted just right, before he loops her hand back through the crook of his arm and escorts her out. He listens as she chatters away, mostly nonsense stories about her day, things that he knows didn't happen this morning, but may have happened on some day before, in whatever memory her brain has pulled her into.
Halfway to Any Given Sundae he notices the end of his scarf starts to fray, the threads splitting and spreading, the color fading as inch by inch it begins to fall away. He pulls it off in a panic, cradling it in his hands as it crumbles before his eyes, threadbare and dry-rotted, slipping through his fingers like sand.
"Mom. Mom! What's happening?" He cries in a panic, but when he looks up he's met with a vacantly sweet, weathered face.
"Hello. I'm on my way to get an ice cream, would you like to join me?" His mother's voice replies, only she isn't his mother, not anymore. She may never be again.
She must have sown some magic into that scarf after all, woven a piece of her into the fabric to keep it alive, to preserve it for him. But now it's faded away with what's left of her mind, nothing but memory and dust in the wind.