I Hope

Another day, another improvement. Cold fronts full of rain and snow pass slowly as I sit by the hospital bed and try to hear words unspoken. You tell me you miss your babies; you show me pictures of them and caress the paper softly. You are sick of this bed, this prison, this inability to speak. Doctors, nurses, therapists come and go, test you, check you, nod encouragingly but you shrug. I tell you you are already much better than you were; I tell you I still see you in there and you'll be back. But you shrug.

So many knocks on the door, so many loved ones trickling in; they fill the room with laughter and chatter. For a moment, we can pretend this is not where we are. For a moment, we are in anybody's living room, making jokes and catching up. But I look over and see the sadness in your eyes, and it breaks my heart.

A return ticket came and went last night while I was driving through the canyon. New York is a world away. Reality is a world away. I cannot contemplate anything beyond this here, this now. You blew me a kiss when I left today. I don't want to leave you at all.