It's Fort Sackville, not Fort Vincennes, and I vetoed the skateboard bring along cos I couldn;t find my skate wrench and ps. if I fell and knocked my noggin or my teeth, 263$ ain't gonna cover it, so peace.
The hospital is familiar. It's where my grandpa died. I'm not scared my grandma is going to die, so it is not scary. It's kind of everything-but-scary. Scary is the meth-dad waiting with his dirty pajama kid, scratching and waiting for the triage nurse at midnight when I was leaving.
Only half my grandma's body will work for her. Speech is difficult all around, I feel like I can pick out what she is saying a little easier than everyone else, due in part to spending the last 15 years trying to make out unintelligable, garbled punk lyrics. I try not to wonder "what next". Peeping aged strangers on oxygen machines, other peoples nana's also being spoonfed ice chips while their whole family looks on while you walk to a from the elevator, I get wonder and dread in selfish pokes. To me, my grandma will live forever until she does not. her what next is my what next is all our what nexts, so that genuine what next is more just ruminating on how to get right before that time.
I look in the rooms and think "If it looks bad, put me in the deep'st woods, tie corn cobs to my ears to draw the animals, and leave me." Maybe fill my pockets with seconal and xanax, for my own comfort, if someone can remember.
I ate at various drive-thrus at various times.
Debating hitting the roller rink tomorrow during open skate; I can't find a place that sell the Times.Posted by Jessica at November 4, 2006 08:50 PM | TrackBack