Sister is back in the hospital. What follows is a loose interpretation of the weekly writing challenge; a list, of sorts, to deal with the pain I am feeling this morning.
I don't feel empty right now, I feel empty. Mom called me this morning. I heard her voice telling me you were going back to the hospital. I was speechless. What happened to my heart? Something happened to my heart. It was expanding, it was imploding. I think it felt painful, but I was feeling too overwhelmed by the black, to notice.
Home-made movies McDonald's runs at midnight You paint my nails black and leave one pink These are the things we used to do because these are the things that best friends do. You laugh I laugh You roll over, dying of laughter I fall off of the bed, dying of laughter And so it is, for years
What can I do now? Hospital beds Wheelchairs Needles Your cries and screams Dark room I am here You are there You called me. You said: It will all be okay. Wasn't I supposed to tell you that? But you heard the tears in my voice, that I was trying to hide. I'm not good at hiding the heart on my sleeve. But I tell you: I am sorry. It will be okay. I will come see you. I love you. Goodbye. Then I sit on my couch and explode. I see my tears fly up to the cieling and burst into crytals I see my heart through my skin, and then it rips out of my chest and lays on the floor I feel like I am in a 12 step program to deal with the pain of my sister's disease Step 1: cry Step 2: wipe away the tears and snot Step 3: sit on edge of bed and contemplate suicide Step 4: fall onto the floor and realize that even suicide wouldn't fix anything Step 5: call her Step 6: hang up and feel the kick in the gut from her soft, suffering voice Step 7: cry Step 8: decide that you are dreaming and that none of this is real Step 9: realize that this is all real Step 10: get up off of the floor Step 11: decide that you will keep living as long as she does Step 12: cry What else can I do? There are no more steps on the list.