At the hospital, it is lonely. Not all the time, of course, especially when John at the front desk says hi to me, or when Katie, the security officer, asks how I did on the bio test, but often. There are days when I forget who it is I am seeing. The life has left your face so dry, so gray, that for a moment—only a moment, never more—I forget who you are, who you were. These are the bad days.
There are good days, too, but they’re rare. I’ll bring you a small malted chocolate shake from the local ice cream shop, and you’ll ask why I didn’t bring the large. “What? This isn’t Weight Watchers,” you’ll say, grinning. You’ll ask for me to stroll you around the back of the hospital, where they have a small rose garden. On these days, I sometimes forget why you’re even in the hospital, why you’re not back home gardening your flowers.
Up above I lied. The bad days are bad, but there are worse days, and those, we both know, are really the bad days. You’ll recognize my face and who I am, even if I don’t recognize you, and that’s what hurts. “Go home,” you’ll say softly but sternly. “You don’t want to see me die. It’s not a pretty sight. It’s not a pretty smell.”
Today is a good day. When I look at your face, it’s exactly that: your face, full of life. The gray already gone. You’re laughing about something—what, I don’t know, but I keep laughing, too.
Tomorrow will be a bad day. Maybe a worse day. I can already feel it. When I think about it, deeply think about it, the room starts to enclose around me. The ceiling caves in. The slanted windows press close. The tiled ground trembles. But for now, I keep laughing with you, and the room turns back to normal.
Daniel Boyko is a writer from New Jersey. His work appears or is forthcoming in SOFTBLOW, Nanoism, Blue Marble Review, and The Aurora Journal, among others. He serves as Editor-in-Chief of Polyphony Lit. Wherever his dog is, he can’t be far behind.
Comments