hospital bed.

Beginnings

and endings come here

with nothing such as divinity

or blessed cans of oil and incense

baptizing our souls

into eternity.

Nothing but ugly, fleshy, mortality,

the decaying stench of defeated microbes.

In brief flashes

that shatter time,

years slither away, forming milky pools

of withered age at the bedside.

Medicated synapses

are misfiring,

sending mixed emotions

to the conscious realization of an end.

Ghosts of past friends roam

the space around

the body melting under fluorescent lights,

fragile remnants of pain

and joy destined to be lost forever.

dead letters for living people

    

frog.

 It just sat there on the window ledge. Croaking it’s mating call to anything that could hear it. I appeared to be the sole individual hearing its guttural summons echoing throughout most of the common area and into the office. It has the habitual annoyance of over powering everything I do to block it out and I’m beginning to feel the urge to mate with it myself. I walk out onto the screened in patio, the sound of every animal and creature in the throws of mating compulsion are all uniting in chorus.

     

Following the little path between the building and the fenced in retention pond that constitutes as water front property, under the glow of a fluorescent beacon it sits upon its windowsill balcony. If it was female I could have called it Juliet. With a flick of my fingers my love torn companion is air born into the ragged bushes and dead leaves. Making my way back to the patio, the cacophony appears to be getting louder, as if compensating for the loss.

     

The rising sounds of the world grow louder and louder; closing in on myself and filling my head with nothing else. The discernable cries of the distinct animals are becoming one whole thunderous rumble, my head is ringing with its overwhelming force and it’s closing in on me in, not only from the darkness but from within me as well. The gnarled trees within the fenced in pond move toward the building, as if the space between us is shrinking, without taking a step, growing larger to encompass everything.

     

A light is turned on inside, it distracts me and I see Mavis walking to one of the dinning room tables. She’s carrying an arm full of books and papers, a thick brown and green comforter draped over her head. Everything around has returned to the ongoing mating rituals and the dense air encasing the world; all quaint and normal and safe within their boundaries. And then there is Mavis, a pudgy middle-aged woman with a child like contour to her face.

     

Her smile portents to an innocence that may or may not be there, depending on who diagnoses her; she uses it well when her devious manipulating back fires and her explanations get no sympathy. I watch her, sprawling her belongings onto the table, taking a seat with the comforter still draped over her head, she wraps herself with it and begins separating her papers and books into neat piles. I walk back in, and prepare for the inevitable.

      

“What’cha doing Mavis?”

     

“What?” She pokes her head out of the comforter, looking as if I had just spoken to her in a foreign language or she somehow didn’t hear what I had said. “Oh, I can’t sleep in my room tonight. There is poison in the air and it’s gotten into my room.” She pulls the cover over her head once more.

“What poison?” I ask.

     

“The stuff Chris used to clean the counters tonight. He uses too much of it and I’ve told him thousands of times he can’t use that stuff because he sprays it all over the counters. I need fresh air. I can’t sleep in my room. It smells really bad.” She ends with that deceptive smile and a pseudo-geisha giggle.

    

I attempt to explain to her that there was no smell of poison or chemical cleaners in the air. I explain to her that had a cleaner been used in the kitchen it would not affect her in her bedroom. All in a reluctant but calm and endearing tone, attempting to defuse the situation before it escalates.

     

“Oh, it gets into the air conditioner and then to all the bedrooms. I can smell it. That’s all that matters.”

     

“You don’t smell it here next to the kitchen?”

     

“No.” She’s looking around for answers; you can almost hear the marbles clanking about in her head. “Because, you know, the air conditioner sucks up all the smell.”

     

“You know the rules about being out here after bed time.”

     “Oh, please, I just want to read and I can’t sleep. It’s cold in here. Can I get some ice water?”

     

“No ice water and I like it cold in here. I’m sure it’s a lot warmer in your room.” I make my way back to the office.

     

“But I’ll die in there!” Her voice trailing behind me.

     

“Yeah, I know, but you still have to go to bed. You got five minutes to clean all that junk you brought out here and head back to your room.” I sit down at the computer and jiggle the mouse to get it going again.

     

Mavis comes sulking to the office, her head down, attempting to use that child-like innocence. I click on the screen to bring up the desktop, the boss’ grandson on his second birthday, his face smothered in frosting.

“Donald…” She accentuates the syllables like a five year old. “Why can’t I stay in the dinning room? You know Jesus says that when you want something you should take it and I can’t sleep because Gerty is always talking in her sleep.” Gertrud is her roommate; a 55 year old who’s slowly decaying with the AIDS virus.   

“Because its bedtime and you know that and you should be in your room.” I pull up a Word document on the computer and begin to type at random to appear busy.

     

“Well can I tell you something?” She moves into the office and starts to close the door.

     

“Wait! No. Were not doing this tonight, not again, were not having some heart to heart about your dog, or about the bible, or about the fact that it’s the anniversary of your mom’s death. Step back. Go on.”

     

“That’s not fair. I need to talk to you.”

     

“I’ll tell you what’s not fair is what your mom’s going to say when I call her in the morning and explain to her how you’ve been acting these past two weeks.”

     

She lowers her head once more and heads back to the dining room. Within minutes she storms back past the office carrying all of her belongings and heads for her room, slamming the bedroom door. 

     

Air escapes my lungs in an involuntary sigh. My love torn companion has returned to the window ledge and his swampy serenade begins once more.

dead letters for living people

morning.

I decided to get up when my mind started making shadow puppets from the darkness of the room. The bed was cold. It may have been the sound of Benny moving about in the studio that had awoken me.

Somewhere between rinsing the soap from my face and brushing my teeth I became aware of the absence of nausea. A subtle relief from weeks of running from the bed to the toilet with accompanying heaves and hawls of stomach acids and dinner fragments. This morning I awoke feeling hungry and almost capable of enjoying a bacon double cheeseburger loaded with onions and pickles, my mouth watering at the anticipation of a non-existent meal. A bowl of Raisin Bran Crunch, bananas and toast with orange marmalade would make a suitable substitute.

The unlit morning was vibrant with silence that echoed through the house. Benny had fallen asleep at his desk and sending him to bed would bring on excuses as to why he had to keep working. I’ve always known him to be the type to work through difficulties. I moved about the studio, stealthily capping tubes of paint, placing drying brushes in their bath of inky water and shutting off the desk lamp. He adjusted his hunched posture only minimally before falling deeper into reluctant rest.

The clattering of the phone created a vacuum that pulled the silence toward it and pushed out its metallic resonance in the guise of the theme song to the pink panther. My response hindered on the intuition of the calls purpose.

“Liz?” Dean, Benny’s elder brother, had a tone of questioning uncertainty that left a sour taste at the back of my throat.

“Yeah?”

“Mommy died.”

“Okay.” A dry grip of tightened vocal cords brought on by Dean’s tone. “I’m sorry Dean, seriously. How’s Jack?”

“He’s in crisis mode, so its strict control and planning from him.” His voice was phlegmy and his words were being swallowed in whispered exasperation.

‘Okay. We’ve discussed this, he knows what to do.”

“Really?”

“He’s sleeping right now. I’m gonna wait

till he wakes up. This is the first time he’s slept in two days.”

“Liz?’

“Yeah?”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know. I’m sure Jack needs help. We’ll be flying up as soon as possible so we’ll be needing a pick up from the airport.”

“What am I supposed to do Liz?”

“Don’t ask me Dean, your mom’s dead and I

already have one of her children to watch over. Figure it out, its’ not difficult. This isn’t a surprise and if it is, then you need to ask yourself what you’ve been doing with yourself.”

“I’ll make the call. I want to be the one to break the news.”

“He won’t wanna hold your hand so don’t go looking for support.”

“I know.”

“Well, still, let him sleep a few more

hours. I’ll make what arrangements are needed from here and call Jack to see where he’s at.”

“Why wasn’t I included in all this planning?”

“You were waiting for an invitation? These are your parents.”

“I just think I could have been included.”

“Now is a great time to think some more.”

     

And with the sound of the click, silence encompassed me once more. It took three breaths to gather myself. Benny’s muffled drone of rest could be heard lapping at the oncoming sounds of morning and mourning. The play on words made me giggle. I would’ve gladly have turned off all the phones to keep him blissfully unaware.

The woman, my mother-in-law, wasn’t always someone who made herself available for others to befriend. I couldn’t imagine what she had gone through these last few months. What peace she had sought had finally arrived. Benny was morbidly aware of this inevitability when the first diagnosis came over a year ago and recognized the eventuality of time. Dean held to illusions and ignorance to get through the visual decay of his only beloved parent. After the first round of surgeries Jack approached Benny and myself about a plan and Dean accused us of desiring death upon his mother, never their mother.

A siren was echoing against the sunrise. From this break came a flood of all that was yet to be endured and I instinctively felt for my yet to be protruding abdomen. Recognizing, for the first time, it was there.

dead letters for living people

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