I don't know how to deal with waiting, so I write.

I watch the IV drip.  Her face still looks so beautiful.  My dad stands and shifts in the doorway, not in the room, not out of the room, while my mom slides her finger across her phone screen. 

I can tell by my dad's eyes that he's desperate.  There's nothing he can do to fix things.  There's nothing he can do to be well-prepared; we don't know anything yet.
 I zero in on her bifocal glasses, lying on the beside table, and in them I can see distorted lights and tubes.  I think about what a good photo this would make.  I don't know how to deal with waiting.  None of us do.

Finally, a nurse comes in that my dad can grill for information.  He proceeds to question her about magnesium and blood sugar, testing her knowledge and adequacy.

I wish Stephanie was here.


I've never seen her so weak.  Just Sunday, we were all eating homemade fried chicken and mashed potatoes together at her house in Worthington.  Aunts and uncles from the new england states were in town, so we did it up right, the Jackson family way: eat tons of food, talk about politics, and then everyone falls asleep on couches.
My dad is deploying to Iraq after this summer, so my aunt insisted on taking pictures of my dad with his three brothers.
 Grandma was feeling a little weak that day so she didn't go outside to join them.  I stood on the porch with her and put my hand on her fragile shoulder as we watched the four middle-aged men goof off in front of the camera like rambunctious 12-year-olds.
"You raised some pretty good boys, Grandma."
Her mouth quivered a little bit before she spoke, "Yeah," she paused.  "None of them have ever ended up in jail. 'Least that I know of."
I smirked and chuckled under my breath.

She's a breast cancer survivor, and an amazing cook.  She's obsessed with Elvis, and she doesn't know what the internet is.

She is now a list of numbers on a white board. 73. 128/43. 18. I don't understand what they mean.

Will I ever be able to enter a hospital without "What Sarah Said" playing in the background like a Scrubs episode?  I half-expect Carla or J.D. to walk down the hall.

Her face still looks so beautiful.  She's not just a person, she's the glue that keeps the whole family together.  In her own, quiet, dry-humored way, she's the heart that connects us all; the central hub we all return to.

For some reason, it doesn't feel right to pray for everything to instantly be good again.  It doesn't feel right to ask for this all to poof away.  The only prayer I can pray honestly is,
"God, fill up her room.  Be there with her, and hold her hand.  Hold us too, cause we don't know what's happening."

(Write)rs

There is a library full
(of books, I'm afraid)
that (almost) authors
(never) wrote
someday.

The blank pages
line the shelves
with (nothing)
words that never found their way
(got lost) from pen to page.

The difference between writers
and (almost) not writers
is
that writers
write.




--
After a conversation with my discrete systems prof about his plans on being a writer someday, I thought to myself, "Could they build a library big enough to hold all the books that were almost written?"

I have been reading a lot of ee cummings lately, if you can't tell. :P

I have this disease

which involves searching for poems at two a.m. and
convincing myself I was in love with people that
I was never much in love with.

They tell me it can be cured with diet,
exercise and nine
hours of sleep;
I'm far too tired to try it.

Belated

I forgave the fracture you lent me
(months ago, you know that) as wordlessly
as water whispers grit away. I knew
not to wait for apology
(which came
like belated funeral flowers.
I was
the widow and the deceased.)

Walking home today, a wet
mug was left in leaves, in half
on the street,
hemispheres held
together
by the handle.

I cleaned it up, cut my hand,
(but no blood) set it
on the desk
to dry out in the sun. It fell
and spread out on the floor for me
to clean again
(again, again.)

It broke in the way that only something
already broken can break.