He wanders the halls,
Picking insistently at the edges of the pale pink wallpaper,
Looking in vain for shiny gray metal and flashing lights.
They were there a minute ago.
He stands before the door,
Waiting for the whooshing sound,
Waiting for the magic to happen, for the door to slide open.
This door has a knob. He waits a long time.
He has a visitor,
A dark-haired man with warm brown eyes.
They sit in the garden, longing for springtime, bundled against winter's chill.
The man tells fine stories.
Alexander knows there is something he should remember.