Her face couldn't find mine as I snuck through the door; out of the white hallway, lightbulbs eco-friendly and into her blacked hospital room. Had her eyes have been open they would have lingered around the room, but they were closed, heavy with sick. In my red thigh-length jacket I was bundled against the winter; buttoned to the throat, hands heavy in my pockets, a throbbing in my chest when I remembered her last personal request that had come from this very room only two weeks ago. Just two weeks ago we thought she had a fighting chance.
"Now don't you cry, Megan," she said when she still had the strength to sit up in her hospital bed, its tan plastic railings covered in emergency buttons, in red and blue squares arranged in a scattered pattern.
"Don't you cry, hear? You're not aloud to cry over this," she said when she could still deliver orders in her stern, authoratitive voice. Just the sound of her voice made me want to cry.
But this time, this visit, she wasn't talking. She was barely seeing. Her hands lurched in twitches during her half-dream state, her defined chest cavity rising and falling unevenly, its shallow rattling deafening against the silence in the room.
I watched the snow fall outside, watched it gather inches on the roofs of houses below the eighth story hospital room; watched it pile skillfully, balancing on electrical wires, watched it burry the tombstones of the ancient cemetary below me. From her window I felt the entire city was mine to control, that each pedestrian was a part of some kind of story I was playing out, under my own narration. That car, stop. That man, scrape ice from his volvo windshield. That woman, hurry up her uneven, city home front steps. That eleven year old, run in front of oncoming traffic. (As the narrator, I didn't even need to hold my breath for him.)
I watched the snow collect, the city quiet itself under the early darkness, for over four hours until behind me came a sound of movement under sheets.
I was still wearing my heavy jacket, though no part of me was cold, no part of me was warm. My body temperature was the one part of me completely at ease. Completely content. Managing somehow to cross the room to her side, I heard her try to speak.
"Oh, my red bird," she called me, completely delirious.
"No, it's me, Megan," I said, smiling to her the same way I smilied at customers at work.
"Yes," she said, her voice straining. "My red bird," she seemed convinced so I brushed it off as side effect to her newly aquired insanity.
But something forced me into a brief memory: I was no older than six, standing on her white cement doorstep, my right hand lifted, clutching tightly the iron railing. Truly, I had been dressed completely in blue.
She opened the heavy white front door, its seasonal decorative wreath bouncing slightly, and looked down at my little blonde head.
"Oh! You're my little blue bird today!" she cried, and hurried me indoors...
My chest heaved heavier than before and I felt almost guilty for not remembering right away. I unbuttoned my jacket, desperate under the sudden swelling heat in my neck.
"Yeah, yeah I'm your red bird today," I said, sitting down at her side in a chair equally as tan and uncomfortable as her bed looked. My feet could hardly reach the floor unless I sat on the edge so I did, and I held onto her hand until she fell asleep again, forcing myself to smile each time her eyes flickered open.
"Now don't you cry, Megan," she said when she still had the strength to sit up in her hospital bed, its tan plastic railings covered in emergency buttons, in red and blue squares arranged in a scattered pattern.
"Don't you cry, hear? You're not aloud to cry over this," she said when she could still deliver orders in her stern, authoratitive voice. Just the sound of her voice made me want to cry.
But this time, this visit, she wasn't talking. She was barely seeing. Her hands lurched in twitches during her half-dream state, her defined chest cavity rising and falling unevenly, its shallow rattling deafening against the silence in the room.
I watched the snow fall outside, watched it gather inches on the roofs of houses below the eighth story hospital room; watched it pile skillfully, balancing on electrical wires, watched it burry the tombstones of the ancient cemetary below me. From her window I felt the entire city was mine to control, that each pedestrian was a part of some kind of story I was playing out, under my own narration. That car, stop. That man, scrape ice from his volvo windshield. That woman, hurry up her uneven, city home front steps. That eleven year old, run in front of oncoming traffic. (As the narrator, I didn't even need to hold my breath for him.)
I watched the snow collect, the city quiet itself under the early darkness, for over four hours until behind me came a sound of movement under sheets.
I was still wearing my heavy jacket, though no part of me was cold, no part of me was warm. My body temperature was the one part of me completely at ease. Completely content. Managing somehow to cross the room to her side, I heard her try to speak.
"Oh, my red bird," she called me, completely delirious.
"No, it's me, Megan," I said, smiling to her the same way I smilied at customers at work.
"Yes," she said, her voice straining. "My red bird," she seemed convinced so I brushed it off as side effect to her newly aquired insanity.
But something forced me into a brief memory: I was no older than six, standing on her white cement doorstep, my right hand lifted, clutching tightly the iron railing. Truly, I had been dressed completely in blue.
She opened the heavy white front door, its seasonal decorative wreath bouncing slightly, and looked down at my little blonde head.
"Oh! You're my little blue bird today!" she cried, and hurried me indoors...
My chest heaved heavier than before and I felt almost guilty for not remembering right away. I unbuttoned my jacket, desperate under the sudden swelling heat in my neck.
"Yeah, yeah I'm your red bird today," I said, sitting down at her side in a chair equally as tan and uncomfortable as her bed looked. My feet could hardly reach the floor unless I sat on the edge so I did, and I held onto her hand until she fell asleep again, forcing myself to smile each time her eyes flickered open.
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