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enteleinShe looked more like my other aunt somehow, laid up there in the hospital bed, her normally petite frame swollen from IV nutrients, her face puffy from the same, head resting at an odd angle because hospital beds and rolled up pillows do that sort of thing. They make everything seem awkward. I stood next to the bed and pushed aside the rolling bed table and tried not to knock the machinery that blipped and monitored and whooshed. She fiddled with her trach tubes, she trembled and mouthed words that we could not lip read easily. I held her hand a lot.
Photos from the cruise languish on the memory stick in the camera still. I turned the camera on once or twice, to look at the first photo I took from that week. Clouds thick like cotton, outside of the plane. Blue sky. Infinite promise in thin air. I'm just not in the mood to recap that week. I am glad to be home, yet even at the same time wishing I could escape back to the ship and the nightly endless walks from one end to the other, football fields in length, drunken teenagers hooking up outside the disco, me alone with my purse and my journal and my book. The sea all around, the frightening soothing froth and tide, all directions, we are lost to the coordinates and the mercy of the captain, on this big glittery obnoxious boat.
Chicago is the hard thump of reality. Bills still come in the mail, gas tanks need to be filled, phones need to be answered. Snow melting, ice falling off of buildings, exhaust and dirt in the air. Jamaica is a world away, for better or for worse.
Photos from the cruise languish on the memory stick in the camera still. I turned the camera on once or twice, to look at the first photo I took from that week. Clouds thick like cotton, outside of the plane. Blue sky. Infinite promise in thin air. I'm just not in the mood to recap that week. I am glad to be home, yet even at the same time wishing I could escape back to the ship and the nightly endless walks from one end to the other, football fields in length, drunken teenagers hooking up outside the disco, me alone with my purse and my journal and my book. The sea all around, the frightening soothing froth and tide, all directions, we are lost to the coordinates and the mercy of the captain, on this big glittery obnoxious boat.
Chicago is the hard thump of reality. Bills still come in the mail, gas tanks need to be filled, phones need to be answered. Snow melting, ice falling off of buildings, exhaust and dirt in the air. Jamaica is a world away, for better or for worse.
