Tuesday, March 24, 2015
"Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards." ---Kierkegaard
Follow the corridor that looks down on the koi pond and the garden. Get in the elevator. Don't bother with the barrage of confusing signs, just let muscle memory lead. You've been here before. Maybe six or seven or eight times in the past year. Who's counting. Walk past the life-size photo of the nun, past the skinny Jesus painting, past the seascape, turn right at the sailboat. Now walk to the end of the hall. Wasn't it this room where you had to be gowned and masked to visit Dan last spring? Now it's your mom's room. Don't be surprised. Yesterday she was in the very same ER cubicle (# 12) that he was in for his final visit. The day after Thanksgiving she was in #1, also a cubicle that Dan had spent several hours in. Maybe the universe feels you need to be reminded of all this for some reason. So be reminded. Go there. Let the past inform the present. Put your ear to its mouth. Listen.
My mom has pneumonia. She's in the hospital. Between the three visits I made there today, I crawled in my bed with my clothes on. I didn't really sleep. I didn't really read. I lay there, inhabiting a liminal space between past and present. Whenever I decided to open my eyes, I deleted old emails or read a few poems. Tonight I'm sitting in my living room, drinking wine. It's so quiet, the silence is roaring.
My mom seemed very, very tired this evening.
When I left the hospital the sky looked like this.