The nurse leans against a column near the elevators, looks at her and says, do you know what I read in his records? It just says, 'coming out of anesthesia, still has his sense of humor.' No one does that. We laugh, gratefully accepting any breath of levity in a day that has been anything but. The hours while away at their own pace, shaded hospital windows confusing your perception like Las Vegas casinos, the point is to be here without question.
At last, when the Upper East Side begins to go to bed, we are able to carry her out of the gates, drag her to food. She says I cannot possibly eat and we say of course but order her meals anyway. She cleans the plate. We make jokes of newfound friendships in sterile corridors, because at the end of the day everything else is too heavy to bear. You turn around and upend your own tears onto those around you, and they step up in ways you could only ask for with your most hopeful of hearts.
When you come back to Bushwick, late Saturday night and the kids all out, your suitcase still in tow and your eyes empty with exhaustion, it's like you're breathing for the first time all day. The apartment is cool, you thank him silently for fixing the radiators, think, people step up in ways you could only ask for with your most hopeful of hearts, think, support ripples across the water until it reaches peace.
Think,
I would never have known to ask for
half of the gifts I've been given.
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