I went to work for a few hours. One of them was suffering badly and could not say what was wrong. Yes, we should send her to the hospital even though it's against her will. She would not go for us, or for the medics, but the police officer moved her along using only necessary force, gentle enough, respectful. These holidays, the historical wounds of families. I stopped to buy some cards on the way home. Then I stayed in and quiet.
Some memories stirred.
I remembered being in your house. Your bedroom. Your kitchen. The laundry room. Your spaces without you in them but filled with your essence. Your effort, a part of you, to keep them clean and cheerful. I liked to wash your clothes there and to help you make the bed.
My friend Ian. Tall, freckled, red-haired. He was an adopted boy. He had wounds he didn't speak about, I think. Something that was eating him too.
I love you, I'd say now.
No comments:
Post a Comment