futurities tender_square the lobby of the apartment building has the rich textures of a palace: crown molding and gilded filigree, walls of white that accentuate wainscoting. at the reception desk, two slim, silver-haired women work like stereotypical matrons, doppelgangers mirroring movements. i ask after my father and am told he will be down shortly. "be sure to sit on his left," one of the elderly twins says. "his other arm is injured." she hastens to add, "also, be sure to ask him open-ended questions." i pace the dimensions of the fancy foyer. in one corner, people are conversing around a table. i notice posters with writing on the wall, and signs. my eyes drift past the swirl of letters without registering what they say. "pay attention," i tell myself. "there is a message here." i move to a seating area and begin rifling through the drawer of an end table. inside, i find a notepad in a die-cut shape. there is a meaning to the form i try to untangle like minds-eye geometry. the definition of the letters reveals itself to me: COME HOME i realize my father has not arrived to meet with me. an awareness overtakes me that my time is limited and rapidly dwindling. i return to the front desk and ask for his room number. i take a left down a corridor, and, like with the earlier signs, my vision skims the series of numbers. each closed door leaves me curious, tugging the exploratory urge within. "find his room," i remind myself. i take a right down the corridor and locate the address that belongs to him. i knock on 585. "dad?" i call as i open the door. he is seated upright in bed, the sheets wrapped around him while he stares out of a large window. he is convalescing. the room is filled with his accoutrements; shelves of cds surround where he lays his head to sleep. he turns his head toward me and says, "hi, cassie," as though he's been expecting me. and i awaken to the dark thinking, "he remembers my name. he remembers me." 220804 what's it to you? who go blather from