“Keep writing”. James looked at me intensely and sincerely,
hoping my answer would compliment the thoughts floating through his broken
mind. “Just write”, he urged. So I do. I try to say something pithy, or something
that matters, but when I try it all seems so meaningless. What can I say that
hasn’t already been printed, edited and sold? I say this to myself as the drive
lengthens, expands, making me all the more anxious with every mile lost. “You
need to write”, he says again. I know. But what have I to offer? With such
small stature and little left of who I used to be, it seems unnatural to
pretend I still thrive inside this body that can barely hold my temperament. I
arrive at the destination no less relieved than I was when I left. I peered
into the sad eyes of the sad faces that look like mine, proud noses, soft eyes
that betray the memories of a hardened childhood, one that I myself did not
share. Just write, he tells me again. “About what?” I asked. “It doesn’t
matter, just keep writing”. So I do. I created sentences in my head that open a
few doors for anyone who cares to peek in.
“You can see him now” the nurse says, my cousin standing tall next to
her. She never looked more beautiful, womanly even. Her tired expressions said
more than she cared to admit. My love for her was more profound than I could
have imagined, and so I put on my brave face and slowly walked down the
hospital corridor. “Be strong, make him laugh” I though to myself as we inched
closer to the hospital room that smelled so clinical I almost threw up. I
needed a cigarette and a chance to catch my breath. My body deceived my head,
pleading me not to cry, not to let him know how defeated he looked. Tears streamed down the side of my face as
naturally as fireflies glow, I needed to cry as I held him and he needed to cry
for the loss of his old life that he loved so dearly. Instantly humiliated as
guilt ridden, I tried to make him laugh, nervous that I had made the situation
worse than it needed to be. I am not funny; I know this as I stumble with words
that usually come so easy. His gentle nature eludes a smile anyway and I sit
down next to him. Few words are said
that I can even remember, but somehow being there made me feel like I missed the
chance to be different. My opportunity to remain close with my family, to
revolt against teenage desires and self indulgences, and be a real person. It
didn’t matter much at the time, but looking back at that hospital room, I
realized what loss of time could do to someone. His slight grimace, handsome
still, told me he needed to rest. We walked down the same hospital corridor and
retreated to the waiting room. “Have a cigarette with me?” I asked. My cousin and James followed to the parking
lot. Sullen faces all around, we indulged in what we had vowed to quit a
thousand times before. It felt good to have some control over how your body
behaves. “Are you still writing?” He asked. I lied. “Yes, whenever I can.” I
couldn’t bear to break another heart and so I pretended I was still the girl he
used to know. He looked satisfied but
something told me that he knew I was being insincere. It didn’t matter at that moment. Everything
had gotten darker than I was used to, I couldn’t brush this off because I had
no control over the minutes that passed by me, at once both quickly and slowly.
I had this urge to scream but my
sensibilities told me this type of outburst wouldn’t be helpful to any one,
least of all myself. I looked to my
cousin, who was more resilient than I could ever be, and admired her ability to
maintain her sanity for her father’s sake.
The last pull of the cigarette signaled it was time to walk that endless
route back to the waiting room. My uncle related stories about my family that I
was never there for, stories of people whom I was related to, but would never
know at that stage in their lives. I
thought, for an instant, how boundless it would be to know everything and
immediately thought the opposite. It was starting to get late and I knew the
time had come to leave, sad that my uncle could not do the same, not yet. I tried to kiss him goodbye but my height was
lacking, mirroring my self-control.
Laughing it off and cursing my parents, I took one last look at a man
who had been through as much as one person could stand, yet continued to smile
and fight and maintain his kindness towards others. Humbled, I crossed over to
the other side of the hospital; no less anxious than I was when I arrived. Upon the many goodbyes and see you soons, I
took one last look at the proud features of the people whose arrangements I
admired on others but disliked on myself. It’s strange that we should be such a
longing species, never satisfied until something is taken away, and then we
pray for things to be as they were. I recoil when realizing I do this often,
and hoped my uncle would be okay. He will
be okay, with a little time, a little patience. “Keep writing” James said. And I do.
painting by Aron Wiesenfeld
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