The blanket

Sensing something was wrong, but could not put my finger to it, I made a mental note to meet with my student later. The class had a right to my full attention, I cautioned myself.
 
Two elderly people came to meet with me two weeks after his final examination. They were concerned by their son's change in behavior— so different to the child they knew. I arranged that he visit my GP-friend, and promised them to take it from there. Exactly what did this imply, I reflected with uncertainty.

There was nothing positive about the results— he was terminally ill. Perhaps, I weighed up, he may have known this all along. I listen in shocked silence to his prognosis, trying to separate dying from dreams I had for him. “He has so much going for him," I mentioned to my friend, “How will I ever explain this to his parents?” 

“I’ll do that,” he responded gently.

Walking through a well-kept garden, I noticed beddings separated by white bricks. Patches of blooms gave color, attracting butterflies. My thoughts went to those in the hospice, then sobering up, I walked down the scented path towards the open door.
 

I did not plan to stay long, feeling uncomfortable with Christmas in the air— it does not seem fair, I mused. Forcing myself forward, silence met me as I entered. Smiling, the receptionist waved me to a seat, while continuing to talk over the phone. “We were expecting you,” she mentioned as she walked around her desk, taking my arm to guide me down a long, clean corridor, seemingly aware of my uncertainty.

She left to continue her work as I walked with measured tread to his bed. Cautiously I placed my hand on his shoulder, not knowing what to expect. At first he did not recognize me, then, he smiled weakly. Considering my next move, he eased my predicament by asking: “Will you rub my arms, they're rather painful?”

Years later, seated by the fireplace with a blanket that kept slipping from my knees, I felt his reassuring touch on my arm while bending to cover my legs once more. Flickering flames darted to and fro, crackling they leaped to soothe my thoughts. Sixty winters had passed, I recalled.

Not far from me, he sat reading another essay, as light danced on its pages. There was a mixture of cold and warmth present, but also contentment. My thoughts wondered to the morning of his father’s death.

“Simphiwe is now your son,” my student whispered hoarsely, watching my hand move over his son’s head. There could be no reason for him to believe otherwise— his son would be mine!

“My students are doing well,” Simphiwe mentioned with pride. A smile tilted my lips as I recalled the years he had worked with diligence in honour of his late father. Now a professor— Simphiwe had come a long way.

He stood from his chair, picked up the blanket for the last time, softly rubbing the arm of the only father he had known. 

~~The End