The hospital was all green inside. The people were dressed in green, and the walls were green. I held dad's hand and it felt rough and chipped, like a rock. We climbed the stairs to grandpa's floor. Dad let me bring the sword with me, but I felt shy with it here in the hospital. I held it limp in my hands and trailed it behind me, the tip dragging on the floor.

There was a nurse in grandpa's room. She was bent over him and murmuring into his face, a raspy sound like tree branches scraping a window. She smiled at us then left. There was a large green jug of water on a table beside the bed. I poured three drinks, and drank rapidly. The water was colder here than at home; squares of ice floated on the surface, and beads of cold sweat ran down outside of the jug. I enjoyed it.

Grandpa asked about my hockey game last week. I couldn't remember. I just shrugged, and drank. He kept smiling. Dad said, "He almost scored. Didn't you? That other kid got in the way, what's his name? Aron. Then he put it in himself. But it was your goal." I shrugged, and drank some more. Aron's name sounded strange in grandpa's room.

Short, humming machines, connected to tubes that reached into grandpa's nose, stood beside his bed. Wires reached down into his green housecoat. He hadn't moved much since we came in. He was laying with his head propped up, but his head never moved, as if it was set in place. Just his eyes focused on different things. I asked about the machines between between swallows of water, which was so cold that it hurt.

"They're just helping me, son," he said. "Is that your sword? Where'd you get that from?"

I sat down in a high green uncomfortable chair and looked out the window. I had thought that we were very, very high up, but now it didn't seem so high. We were high enough to see the whole parking lot and people parking their cars in empty spaces.

I couldn't remember where I had got my sword from.

"I'm proud of you," grandpa said, "for finishing preschool. You'll be a man before I know it. You're almost a man now, eh?"

His voice rattled, like he was empty inside, except for something small pinging around like a bullet. I didn't want to be a man. I stared at him, at what a man was. Grandpa laid in bed and dad leaned against the wall. Neither spoke to the other, so I looked out the window again, to the bare trees stripped of their leaves. Winter was over, but it wasn't summer yet.

"How do cold things sweat?" I asked. "The green jug is cold, but still sweats on the outside."

I turned around, but no one answered, so I tapped my sword against the floor, tick, tick, tick.

The nurse returned, clicking a pen against her teeth. She bent down and looked at the screens on the short murmuring machines, which drew a shifting green line against a black backdrop and short digital numbers. She made marks on a clipboard.

"Where's Mary-Anne?" grandpa asked, his hand held by the nurse's. "Can't be bothered to come?"

"There was a lot to do today," dad said. He sat with his hands held carefully together, as if they were made of glass and he was afraid they might crack if held too tightly. "You know we had the graduation today. She'll come another time."

Grandpa blinked slowly and his face was grey and hard like steel. The nurse looked up at dad. Her face was grey too, even if it was softer. I thought maybe she and grandpa were in love, but the thought didn't seem right. I stood up from the chair.

"I want to go," I said.

The machines beeped and the nurse stood up from the bed, and let grandpa's hand fall to the dark green blankets.

"Just one more minute," dad said, looking at the floor.

I sat again, and looked out the window. The sun hurt my eyes.

***

Dad collapsed onto a cushioned bench on the lower level. He stared at the floor for a while. Some old people sat in pairs nearby, looking at the reception desk, waiting. There were some paintings of crosses, and even one of Jesus stretched out in the same shape as the cross. Some of the old people smiled at me as I walked back and forth in front of them. Mom always told me, Old people like little kids. But old people bored me.

Dad was holding his hands like they would break again, then shifted his face towards me. "Your mother will be a while. Let me just sit for a moment."

"Okay."

I felt funny. No one knew where I had been that day, what had happened. The people in the waiting area thought that I was like them, waiting in a hospital. But I wasn't. I was there for something that was quick, and then over. I understood that I didn't know what waiting was. They wouldn't understand, because they weren't kids anymore. Even dad didn't really know. I had run the race earlier and counted the gumballs and now I was in the hospital with the ripe white sword in my hand, but I didn't know what grandpa was doing there. But I knew he was waiting. It was like being outside a circle, passing by, looking in. I felt small in front of the people. I closed my eyes and asked God to make dad stand up and move on, just to see if it would work.

"Dad."

His fingers were laced together and now he was looking upwards.

"You liked our visit today?" he asked. "With grandpa? You liked seeing grandpa?"

"Yes, I always like seeing grandpa."

"Good. That's good." He turned his face to me and it was burnt. "I want you to remember this."

There was that electric smell in the air again. A burning smell, of fire on life. I knew forgetting would never be the problem again.

"I think that's why I don't go to church," dad said. "I'm scared of not remembering."

A nurse walked in front of us, then a janitor pushing a dirty white cart. A voice called out on the loudspeaker. The phone rang behind the desk.

"I'm scared," I said.

"I know," dad said, rubbing my knee, his eyes deeply brown, buried layers of dirt. "I promise, it's not always like this."