|I don’t know why I chose this photo. I guess however, when your steady world starts to warp, you may end up viewing the world in grey, not finding color in it yet. And the feet–I think, that when ever something extraordinary occurs, be it bad or good, the only thing that grounds you is the idea of reality, concreteness. Its a grey concreteness, but its there nonetheless. I can’t explain my self 100%, but there is something about a single hand, a pair of feet, that just pull you to those single moments of this world.|
It’s so funny, I feel that I have so much to say, but I just see this blank screen staring up at me, and I falter–not knowing which words to choose. Which words would do justice the story I have to tell. I remember the moment distinctly– it was two years ago, my senior year of high school, around 4:30 in the afternoon. It’s funny, what details we remember; I know everyone always says it, and one half doesn’t believe that line, but its true, in the most important moments we remember the most insignificant details. I was still in school, and my mother hadn’t arrived yet to pick me up, in fact, I was beginning to worry. I knew that my mother had gone to visit my father in the hospital that day– that he had been taken there the day before because there seemed to be something wrong with his left eye. But I hadn’t thought anything of it–my father had been at the hospital before, for various reasons–but he always came out a few days later–unscathed.
I waited a few moments longer in the emptying hallways, the rubber soles of my shoes slapping loudly against the white floors of my high school as I paced up and down. [right, I’m getting writer’s block again, I just need to take a deep breath, and calm, this story needs to be told]. I couldn’t take it any longer. I strode over to the weatherbeaten student phone hanging on the wall, and quickly dialed my mother. One ring, two rings–
“Hi, Mom–umm, what’s going on? I’ve been waiting here for about 25 minutes, almost everyone’s left already, where are you?” There was silence at the other end of the line.
“I’m at the hospital”. My heart beat began to quicken, but I smothered it down.
“why are you still at the hospital? Isn’t he home yet?”
“we-ell, no, it seems that your father will be staying at the hospital for a few more weeks”. I wiped my clammy hands down the sides of my navy uniform skirt. I looked out again towards the empty hallway. In the distance, a girl was stuffing a bunch of folders into her backpack. How mundane.
“Why?” I shot out. Quick, insistent. My mother made some noncommittal noise at the other end. She mumbled something into the receiver.
“What?” I asked sharply. My breathe started to come quicker; I absently put my hand on my chest where my heart had started to beat at twice its normal rate.
“What is it? Why is he still there?” I waited tensely for an answer.
“Because he has it”.
“Yes”. I roughly yanked my fingers through my knotted hair.
“Can you just say it?” I asked sharply, sharper than I intended to. My mother sighed on the other end of the phone. I waited for her answer.
“He has cancer”. My mother’s voice went ragged. I stared at the receiver in my hand, the dark smudge on the left part of the mouth piece, the tepid beige color of the curling cord. I stared at the receiver hanging limply in my hand, gently put it back on the phone hook, and then blindly ran out of that dank, empty hallway, toward somewhere–anywhere–else.
Until next time readers,